Addendum III: Confession
by Rain in the Morning
Summary: Things become personal and the stakes become higher as Freddy tracks down Blonde. Rating for language and violence.
1. Garage

_A/N: Here it is, the final part of the Addendum Trilogy, where Freddy starts closing in on Vega. Like the previous stories it will be twelve chapters long when completed. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: If I said I owned Reservoir Dogs, would you believe me?_

**Chapter 1: Garage**

"Wakey, wakey..."

Someone slapped Freddy's face and his eyes fluttered open. He was hit by a strong smell of dust and gasoline. A part of his mind was telling him that regaining consciousness was a really, _really_ bad idea right now, but he was too disoriented to do anything about it. Then he got a good look at the person who'd woken him up, and instantly wished that he'd remained out cold. _Fuck_.

Vega was crouched over him, smiling at him like an ad for fucking toothpaste. "Lost you for a minute there, Orange," he was saying, friendly as hell. He fastidiously wiped his blood-spattered hand on the knee of Freddy's jeans. "Or I guess it's _Newendyke_ now. Glad to have you back." His voice was rough and his back was hunched over slightly. Freddy couldn't help smirking; seems Vega hadn't completely recovered from when Freddy had unloaded a shitload of lead into his chest.

"Pleasure's all yours," he said dryly. His left eye was swollen shut, his mouth was bleeding, and his entire body ached. All courtesy of you-know-who.

"So what'd you think?" asked Vega thoughtfully, holding up a rusty hammer in one hand and a wrench in the other. "How'd they compare?"

Freddy felt justified in ignoring the question. Vega had just broken his left ring finger in two places, once with each tool. He must've passed out while Vega was using the wrench. Freddy looked up at his mangled finger, wondering dazedly if it was really his. This whole experience was pretty fucking surreal, like a scene out of a cheesy horror movie. He was in a dusty garage, sitting against a ladder with his wrists roped to one of the rungs above his head. An altogether fucking uncomfortable position, thank you very much. Especially with Vega leering down at him with a fucking toolbox open beside him.

Vega watched Freddy as he stared at his twice-broken finger, and shook his dark head sadly. "You know," he said, laying a friendly hand on the cop's shoulder, "if you're not really married, you shouldn't wear a ring. It's bad manners to lie."

Freddy gave a laugh which turned into a cough, and he spat out a stream of blood. "Imagine you lecturing me on bad manners," he muttered. "I guess this is your idea of revenge? Still not over that rat bullshit?"

"I don't know," Vega answered mildly. He suddenly threw the hammer and wrench aside, and Freddy winced as they smashed into some old furniture. Picking up a clear plastic box of screws, Vega turned it over contemplatively in his blunt fingers. Freddy felt panic rising within him for about the umpteenth time that afternoon. This guy was fucking nuts.

"Killing someone's friends and employers ain't somethin' that can be easily forgotten. I went to county for the Cabots. We were real close." From the tone of his voice, they could've been a couple of buddies talking. But the truth remained that Freddy was tied to a ladder and bleeding from about a dozen fucking places, and Vega was currently looking for his next torture tool. Not something that buddies usually did.

Vega had abducted Freddy as he'd been leaving the batting range, and had been torturing him in this fucking garage for a while now. Freddy was scared shitless, no lying about that. He knew exactly what Vega was capable of – he'd seen it first-hand – and he also knew that pleading with this psychopath was fucking useless. His only hope was to keep Vega talking, though it had done fuck-all amount of good for Marvin.

"So is this garage your next target?" he asked, trying not to watch as Vega idly rummaged around in the toolbox. He could at least try to get some information out of the guy before he lost a couple of limbs. "You dumped that gasoline all over the floor, and I don't think it's just for decoration. Today's Thursday, and I was just wonderin' –"

"Eddie and I knew each other since we were kids, you know?" Vega examined a pair of pliers before chucking them over his shoulder. "We were practically brothers. Well, I already had a brother. But you know what I mean."

"What's with the arsons?" asked Freddy, trying not to let Vega unnerve him. "We know you're the one behind 'em all."

"And Joe, he was the closest thing to a father I had. My old man never gave a shit about me. It was nice, you know, having Joe look out for me like that."

"What's linking all those places together?" Freddy was determined to get _some_ sort of a response. He was still a cop on the job, though a fucking terrified one. "Seven buildings so far, and the last one was a fuckin' barbershop. Why burn 'em down? You a closet pyromaniac or somethi–?"

"Remember that cop?" Vega interrupted, sorting through the toolbox with both hands now, spilling rusty nails onto the stained concrete floor. "I cut off his ear. Now _that_ was real fuckin' funny." He silently deliberated for a moment. "I wonder... should I do the same to you? Another ear?" His hand hovered over the tools, then selected a screwdriver. "Or maybe an eye?"

"_Fuck_ you," said Freddy. He was done with trying to get information. There was no use distracting the bastard; he had a one-track mind. He tortured cops for entertainment, for fuck's sake! Freddy's fate was looking more and more like a grease-spot amidst the burnt wreckage of a garage in the middle of fuck knows where.

"Fuck me?" Vega gave a surprised little laugh. "Fuck me? Huh... Well kid, when I'm done with you, you won't be able to fuck a single fuckin' thing."

Freddy had no idea where this was going, and watched as Vega flung the screwdriver away and picked up a hacksaw. But then he started to get some idea of what was in store for him when Vega reached over and began unbuttoning his jeans. _Shit!_

"What the fuck are you doin', man?" he yelped, not caring that his voice had risen a couple of octaves. "Jesus, what the _fuck_? Oh, oh _shit_! Please, no, oh god no!"

Vega was just about to remove the possibility of Freddy ever fathering children for the rest of his natural life, or even pissing properly, when they both heard the sirens. Someone had tipped off the cops. For a long moment Freddy stared at Vega out of his eye that wasn't swollen shut. Then Vega let his breath hiss out between his teeth.

"It's your lucky day, Newendyke," he remarked, getting up from his crouch and dropping the hacksaw. He calmly took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and blew out the smoke in a long, steady stream. Then he smiled. Fucking Marlboro Man. "Or maybe not." He held up the cigarette and flicked it into the pool of gasoline. The puddle flared up immediately, and Freddy watched as Vega disappeared through the door.

The sirens were getting louder. The smoke was already thick and dark, and Freddy coughed uncontrollably, wrenching at the rope around his wrists as he felt a burning sensation in his throat. The fire was eating up the oxygen in the musty garage, and his head was spinning. His feet were getting very hot, but he couldn't move them. Difficult to breathe. Feet burning. Dizzy. Someone banging on the door. Getting dark. Losing consciousness –

Gone.

_A/N: In the style of epic poems, I have decided to start the final story of this trilogy _in medias res_. I chose to set Freddy's torture scene in a garage because originally _Reservoir Dogs_ was supposed to take place in a garage instead of a warehouse. I also couldn't resist giving Vega all those lovely tools!_


	2. Hospital Blues

**Chapter 2: ****Hospital Blues**

The only place Freddy hated worse than his apartment was the hospital. It was no wonder he'd slashed his wrists the last time he was in here. He fucking hated the stench of sickness obscured with disinfectant, the horrible fake-cheerful pastel color of the walls, the case-hardened doctors with their plastic smiles and probing hands, the nurses –

"Hi Freddy."

– with their little white dresses buttoned tightly over a full rack. Right now she was the most welcome sight in the world, with her strawberry blonde hair and nice lips. Damn, she looked good standing there in the doorway. Of course, she was one of the very few. Among the legion of nurses at the hospital Strawberry Blonde was probably the only one who was young, pretty, and single.

"Are you finished?"

Freddy pushed the meal tray away. "Thanks."

She pulled the rolling table over to the side. "Do you want the bed lowered?"

"No, I'll stay up."

Strawberry Blonde began to straighten his bed, plumping up his pillows and giving him a generous look down her dress. "You're not in any trouble, are you?" she asked as she straightened his blankets. "Only I saw the cop posted outside your door, and I wondered..." She shot him a coy look. _Naughty girl_.

"Apparently it's for my own protection," Freddy said wryly.

"From me?" said Strawberry Blonde with that cheeky little grin. "Guess we can't get any ideas, then, with a watchdog outside."

Friday night, and he was getting his kicks flirting with a nurse. And fuck – he really shouldn't be doing that, because he was seeing Irene now. The thought was like a bucket of ice water: _Irene_. She'd visited him just that morning, but in all honesty the visit hadn't gone so good. Irene had been in pretty bad shape after hearing about his attack. Freddy couldn't imagine how she felt, with the man she was sleeping with tortured by the man who'd also tortured her husband. During their relationship they had never talked about Marvin or any of that shit – but this situation had forced them to acknowledge Vega, and it was painful for both of them. And particularly fucking painful for him, as the cuts and bruises and the finger broken in two fucking places would attest. _You know, if you're not really married, you shouldn't wear a ring. It's bad manners to lie._

"You have a visitor waiting," said Strawberry Blonde as she took up the meal tray. "Should I tell him to come in?" She winked and sashayed out of the room, giving him a nice view of her –

"Hey Newendyke!"

Freddy hastily brought his eyes up to see who had arrived. It was the kid Andrews, carrying a sports bag over one shoulder. "Jeez, your face looks like someone used it as a doorstop."

"Something like that," Freddy admitted ironically.

Andrews swung the bag onto the ground as he took the chair at the side of the bed. His dopey grin faltered when he caught sight of Freddy's arms. Andrews had never seen the scars; Freddy now kept his sleeves rolled down out of habit, but wearing hospital pajamas had several disadvantages.

"Those are old," Freddy told him, and Andrews looked instantly abashed. For some reason Jeffrey Andrews looked up to Freddy, which just showed the kid's shitty judgment, but it also made Freddy a bit more self-conscious about how he treated the younger guy. And that's why he changed the subject rather than watch the other cop squirm as he would normally have done. "What's in the bag?"

The kid's expression cleared, and he unzipped the sports bag and pulled out a baseball bat. "I brought this for you. We found it in the parking lot of the batting range."

_Crushing pain on the back of his head, falling – falling –__ falling bat hitting pavement and clattering, rolling, rolling away, looking up at a dark figure bending, stooping over him as everything fades to black –_

"Holdaway said it was yours." Andrews' voice snapped Freddy out of it. "He visited you yesterday night, but you were still unconscious. And Dr. Moss wants to see you as soon as you're back on the job. He told me to pass on the message."

Freddy wrinkled his nose at the mention of the department shrink. "Yeah, right," he muttered under his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to talk about his experiences. _Vega dropped the screwdriver and picked up a hacksaw. _"So tell me what I missed," he said in a louder tone of voice, trying to drown out the visions flickering through his head.

Andrews shifted uncomfortably. "Sure, Freddy. Uh… Vega got away. We did everything we could, we really did, but he slipped through our nets."

"That's no surprise," said Freddy, and the younger cop looked very relieved. Freddy was a bit annoyed; did Andrews really think that he'd completely fucking lose it and take it out on him? "At least now we know that sick fucking bastard is definitely behind the arsons. It was on a Thursday, like all the others, and he matches witness descriptions."

"Yeah, but why?" said Andrews. He was looking at Freddy expectantly.

"Shit, you think I know?" he snapped, and immediately felt a twinge of guilt at the contrite look on the younger cop's face. "I did try to ask him about it," he admitted more calmly. "When he was... you know..." _Torturing me_. "But the fuckin' prick ignored my questions. I got no fuckin' clue what he's up to."

There was a silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Then Andrews said, "Broken?"

Freddy saw that he was looking at his left ring finger, and looking at it brought the ache back. The digit was painful, swollen, and fucking difficult to use, and splinted to his middle finger so that his hand looked like the appendage of some fucked-up aquatic animal. "Yeah, it's broken in two places," he confirmed. "Aside from the cuts and bruises and stuff, that's the worst I got. He was gonna do a lot more before you guys showed up." He flexed his hand and winced. "Doctors were worried about tracheal damage or some shit, but I got pulled out of the smoke in time. D'you know who did it?"

Andrews ducked his head and appeared fascinated with his clasped hands. "I – I did."

Freddy blinked. He hadn't seen _that_ one coming. Was he really going to believe that Andrews, the awkward kid with red hair and glasses, the one who shook worse than a jackhammer before a job, had actually pulled him out of a burning building? "You did, huh?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral as he tried to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to think.

"Yeah..." Andrews glanced up at him before looking away again, his cheeks flaming red. "I hope you don't mind."

"You stupid motherfucker!" Freddy burst out. "What the fuck would I mind for?" He laughed at the startled expression on the younger cop's face. "Thanks, man, I really owe you one."

"Nah, don't worry about it Detective Newendyke."

Freddy shook his head. "Listen, enough of this last-name shit. You can call me Freddy, all right? Jeff?" He stuck out his hand.

After only a bit of hesitation, the rookie took it. "Sure thing."

As they shook hands, Freddy couldn't help feeling that he'd had a breakthrough with the kid. The rookie really had proved himself, first by going undercover to get information from George "Dov" Dover, and now by saving Freddy's life, or at the very least his lungs. Maybe now they could act like equals. Freddy wouldn't boss Jeff around – not too much, anyway – and hopefully Jeff wouldn't act like the president of the Freddy Newendyke Fan Club. It was a win-win situation.

"So when are you getting out of this place?" asked Jeff, looking around the depressing little room.

"Tomorrow morning," said Freddy, groaning as he stretched. "It's a nightmare in here. Doctors and nurses telling you what to do – I can't even smoke. It's worse than fucking Nazi Germany."

"Are the nurses really that bad? I mean," Jeff gave a half-grin, "the one that was leaving your room looked pretty fine to me."

Freddy sniggered. "Strawberry Blonde? Yeah, she's somethin'. I got to know her pretty well last time I was in here. For the coma. Got to know all the nurses pretty fuckin' well, actually, and Strawberry Blonde is the exception to the rule. Last time I was here there was a black nurse on the night shift, Bonnie. Nice ass but a fucking bitch. She's on maternity leave, thank god."

"Well at least you're getting out tomorrow." Jeff glanced at his watch, and stood. "I gotta go, but take it easy, okay? You need someone to pick you up in the morning?"

Freddy shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, though." He watched as Jeff left the room, half-closing the door behind him.

Left alone, Freddy glanced down at the baseball bat Jeff had left leaning against the chair at the side of his bed. He could reach it if he needed to. Just lean over from his bed, and his hand could settle over that worn familiar grip. He'd hit a couple of good ones in his time, playing ball with Luke in the backyard of their foster home. He could swing a bat as well as any of them. And if Vega came barging through that door, he'd find himself with a mouthful of splinters.

A door slammed somewhere down the hall and Freddy jumped. He took a big gulp of air and told himself to relax. Shit, he was nervous. It was even worse than his police academy exams. He had this horrible feeling of something hovering over him, something with a gas can in one hand and a lighter in the other.

For that was what had been haunting him ever since he'd woken up late last night. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep, no matter how hard he'd tried. Whenever he closed his eyes he was taken back to that garage. _I wonder... should I do the same to you? Another ear? Or maybe an eye? _That madman Vega knew who he was now. He knew his name. He could track him down. Shit, he could be walking into the hospital right fucking now! _Excuse me, do you have a patient here called Newendyke?_

Freddy wished that he had his gun. There would be no sleep for him tonight. Not that he'd take the rest if he could – there was no fucking way he wanted to dream about Vega with a hacksaw, or that burning garage. He'd keep his eyes on his bat, and pray that the cop outside his room gave him enough of a warning should Vega turn up. He heard footsteps approaching and tensed up, muscles contracting, eyes wide, fingers trembling as they reached towards his bat. The footsteps were at the door... sweat stood out on Freddy's brow... the footsteps were passing.

It was going to be a long night.

_A/N: The sharp-eyed among you may have recognized the nurse Bonnie as Jimmie Dimmick's wife in_ Pulp Fiction. _Strawberry Blonde was previously mentioned in _Addendum I: Depression_. Reviews welcome!_


	3. The Thursday Arsonist

_A/N: __To SASSAFRAS: Normally I only reply to signed reviews, but I really enjoy your comments! To answer your questions, congrats on spotting the bucket of water allusion; you can be treasurer of the fan club and I'll be secretary; and I could lie and say yes, that's how clever I am, but the Germany reference was pure coincidence._

**Chapter 3: The Thursday Arsonist**

Back at work, Freddy tried to loosen up. After being released from hospital he'd been ordered to rest all of Saturday. Irene was visiting her mother, otherwise he knew she would've spent the day with him, but in a way he was glad that he didn't have to see her so soon. Anyway, he'd spent the whole day alone in his shitty apartment. At first it had been difficult – he'd been tense as hell, expecting Vega to stroll through the door at any minute twirling his razor. A cop was posted outside now that he was a known target, but shit, it wasn't like another cop was going to stop a man like Vega. The more the fucking merrier for him.

After pacing around the apartment like a fucking idiot, Freddy had finally been able to relax a little. And it had been pretty nice, kicking back on his sofa as he ate his way through a double double with cheese, listening to Keith Whitley's "Miami, My Amy", taking his mind off the cuts and bruises that still ached no matter which way he moved. But when he went to bed his paranoia came back. He'd tossed and turned, images flashing through his brain of Vega holding a lighter in front of a screaming Marvin, or crouching in front of him with a hacksaw.

But now it was daylight, and Freddy knew that it would be reckless even for Vega to try to snatch him from the middle of the fucking police department. It was safe here.

He walked down to Holdaway's office and pushed the door open a crack, pausing when he saw Holdaway and Jeff in the middle of an animated conversation.

"– piece of glass came flying right at me, man. You can see where it went all the way through." Jeff had pulled up his sleeve and was showing Holdaway the back of his arm.

The older man snorted. "That's nothin', kid. Check this out." Freddy had to struggle not to laugh as he watched Holdaway drop his pants, revealing a fetching pair of stars-and-stripes boxers. The man pointed to a jagged scar on his thigh. "Knife wound," he said proudly. "Shit, you think yours is bad? This baby here is the motherfuckin' queen of scars. She's the fuckin' Battle-scar Galactica, man."

Freddy couldn't take it anymore and burst out laughing. The two cops looked up as he entered the office. "Nice one, Jim," he said, grinning. "But you gotta admit, I take the fuckin' gold when it comes to scars."

"Whoa, don't let me interrupt." McKlusky was standing in the doorway with an amused expression on her heart-shaped face. Holdaway pulled up his pants completely without shame, covering up the ugly scar. Freddy couldn't help wondering where he'd gotten it. That could wait for another day.

McKlusky dropped a file onto Holdaway's already-cluttered desk. "That's all we have on the garage that was burnt down, which isn't that much," she said, "Someone'll have to do a bit of digging." She turned to Freddy. "How're you holding up, Newendyke?"

"I'm okay," he insisted, not wanting her to make a fuss. "Vega knows who I am now, but Ferchetti's got a flatfoot hangin' round my apartment twenty-four-seven. It's no big deal." There was no fucking way he would tell these guys about the nightmares, the cold sweats, the insomnia, the flashbacks, all hitting him since Vega's personal attack. No. Fucking. Way.

McKlusky was still looking at him in some concern, so he decided to change the subject. "I'm fuckin' pissed about my finger, though," he said, holding up his left hand for all to see. "I gotta keep the splint for another week. Hurts like a bitch whenever I move it."

"You all right to shoot with it?" asked Holdaway, looking up from the file on the garage.

"Don't have to shoot with it," said Freddy. "I'm using a one-handed grip now. Got my aim back." He really _was_ proud of that. Even Oscar had been impressed; they'd gone out for beers.

"That's good news, Freddo," Holdaway smirked. "You'll save big bucks on all your wasted ammunition."

"_Boys_," said McKlusky as Freddy punched Holdaway in the arm. "I've got a dozen sheets to pull up for Ferchetti after I'm done here."

"All right, we're listening." Holdaway sat down, and Freddy perched on the edge of the desk. Jeff was leaning against the wall beside the window.

McKlusky gave them all a _look_ to make sure they were paying attention. "Okay," she said. "So when Dov and the rest of Cabot's boys go down, Vega has no employer. Three weeks after the bust, he commits the first arson at a pub called the Coach and Horses, okay? Since then there's been one every Thursday, and this garage was the eighth. So far no pattern's been detected."

"And that's our job," said Holdaway, passing a tired hand across his forehead. "Shit, we're no closer to guessing his next move than Cleveland is to winning the fuckin' World Series."

"How'd the media take this one?" asked Freddy, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

McKlusky shrugged. "Havin' a field day. They're calling him the Thursday Arsonist. Now they've got a description to tack onto it, the one we put out asking for tips. Media attention's been growing the whole time. The burning garage was all over the news – not you, Newendyke," she said at the look on his face. "They just mentioned that a cop was taken to the hospital with minor injuries. No names, no pictures."

"And now we gotta figure out where Vega's gonna strike next," said Jeff, chewing his bottom lip. "I'll find out what I can about the garage. Poke around the neighborhood, knock on some doors, see if there's a link to Vega somewhere."

"And what should I do?" asked Freddy.

Three heads turned in his direction and stared. It was very uncomfortable.

"You?" said Holdaway, raising his eyebrows. "You can take the rest of the motherfuckin' day off. I don't even know why you came in today, man." When Freddy didn't move, the older cop jabbed a finger at him. "Get your ass outta here, kid. You can come back tomorrow when you don't look like someone who stood in for Jean-Claude Van Damme's fuckin' punching bag."

Freddy left the office and tried to slam the door behind him, but it was an old door and just bounced open again, hitting him in the heels. That made him even more pissed, and he slouched his way down the hall with his head down and his hands in his pockets.

"Newendyke?"

Freddy doubled back to see Detective Zack Jiang watching him from the door of a crummy little office. The guy was wearing jean cut-offs, sandals, and a tie-dyed t-shirt. Coupled with his scruffy beard and wooden bead necklace, he looked like he belonged at fucking Woodstock, the furthest thing from a detective investigating crime boss Marsellus Wallace.

"Welcome back, man," said Jiang, sticking out his hand. Freddy shook it. "Hungry?" He held up what he'd been munching on. It looked like a muffin, but Freddy wasn't too sure.

"What's that?"

"It's a gluten-free rice bran muffin," said Jiang, and Freddy made a face. "What? You won't stay for breakfast?"

"Actually I'm just on my way out," said Freddy ruefully. "But I'll be back tomorrow morning."

The other man glanced in the direction of Holdaway's office. "Huh. Well, how're the arsons coming along?"

"Shitty. How's the Wallace case coming along?"

"Shitty," Jiang admitted with a smile. He stepped into his office and beckoned Freddy after him. The small space was almost entirely taken up by two desks and a filing cabinet. Jiang obviously shared this space, because one half of the room was plastered with environmental posters and sported a compost bin, and the other was crammed with Dodgers paraphernalia. Interspersed among these personal decorating touches was information on Wallace and his associates. Freddy peered at a blurred black and white photo of a young woman with dark hair.

"That's Mrs. Wallace," said Jiang, tapping his mouth with a finger. "Marsellus is one lucky son of a bitch. Last I heard she went to Amsterdam. Still there for all I know.

"What's the big guy up to?" asked Freddy, turning next to an eight-year-old mug shot of Wallace.

Jiang was busy pinning up the corner of a poster that read 'Arbor Day: a tree hugger's favorite holiday' under a picture of a tree. "You might find this interesting," said Jiang as he pushed the tack into the wall. "Wallace is trying to take over some of Cabot's business, now that the old man's gone. Wallace just purchased a couple of clubs. Word on the street is he's tryin' to find guys to run 'em. He'd probably be approaching some of your old friends if you hadn't taken 'em all down."

"He sure doesn't waste any time," Freddy muttered. Then in a louder voice he said, "Thanks, man. I'll see you tomorrow when I come in."

"Yeah – oh, Freddy!" He turned to see Jiang waving a hand to get his attention. "There's a reporter hangin' around outside the station, ambushing cops for statements on the arson. We've all just been ignoring her."

"Thanks for the warning." With a friendly wave Freddy strolled away, feeling better than when he'd stormed out of Holdaway's office.

True to Zack's warning, as soon as he stepped outside he was intercepted by a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and enormous earrings. He recognized her at once. "It's you."

The journalist blinked, tearing her eyes away from the scar on his right cheek. "I'm sorry?"

"Nothing," said Freddy hastily. He recognized the woman from her picture, but apparently she didn't recognize him. To her, he was just another cop leaving the station. She didn't even realize that he was the coma victim she'd written about before. Took pictures of him in hospital and everything, ruining his chances of ever going undercover again.

"I'm Barbara McGowan from the –"

"I know about the shitty little paper you write for," Freddy interrupted her. "You consider yourself a real hero, huh? Talking about everything that's wrong with our fucking society, slinging dirt left and right."

McGowan frowned, but soon recovered her composure. Her large fake smile made him want to slap her. "I was wondering if you could answer some questions, officer. As you know, there's been public outcry to catch the Thursday Arsonist. Many civilians have been injured in the fires, and it's only a matter of time before somebody dies. The LAPD have confirmed they have a suspect, but they won't say who."

"And you think I'm gonna tell you?" Freddy gave a disbelieving laugh and walked away. McGowan wasn't to be taken seriously. She wrote in a radical newspaper devoted to deploring social conditions that nobody ever bothered to read. He had bigger problems to deal with.

_A/N: The "Battle__-scar Galactica" comment is actually one that I made to a friend, but Holdaway was referring to the original 1970s series. The Coach and Horses pub is where Quentin Tarantino and Tim Roth got completely drunk before Roth was cast for the role of Mr. Orange. Zack Jiang appeared previously in _Addendum II: Obsession_ as one of the detectives investigating Marsellus Wallace._


	4. At the Jade Dragon

**Chapter 4: At the Jade Dragon**

"Hey, watch it bud–"

The man's voice trailed off when he got a good look at Freddy's face. And no wonder – he may not be physically intimidating, but when Freddy was angry he got a strange look in his eyes that made most people think twice about crossing him. And right now Freddy wasn't angry. He was fucking furious. The young cop walked down the street with the single-minded purpose of a bulldozer. If a toddler had stumbled into his path he probably would have marched right over it. The source of Freddy's anger lay in a sheet of newsprint clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Not fifteen minutes after arriving at the station Freddy had found the article. And not just any article. Right smack-fucking-dab under the title was the name of bitch reporter herself, Barbara McGowan. "Police silent on Thursday Arsonist" didn't sound too incriminating. But the entire article was dedicated to making the LAPD seem like a bunch of incompetent assholes. She had even quoted Freddy indirectly: _Upon enquiring as to the identity of the suspect, one officer laughed, "You think I'm going to tell you?" before walking away._ And even worse than her insulting the police was her rampant speculation about the fucking Thursday Arsonist. That bitch's rumour-mongering was going to interfere with the investigation. Anyway, Freddy was having enough of her shit. Jeff had tried to hide the article from him, but after a brief game of keep-away Freddy had managed to grab and read it. He'd hailed a cab and gone to the reporter's office, but she'd been on her lunch break. So now he was storming down the street to the nearby restaurant.

At the building on the corner he glanced up at the gilt lettering: "The Jade Dragon", and below that in smaller script: "Chinese Fine Dining." He gave it the briefest of glances before pulling fruitlessly at the door handle, cursing roundly at his mistake, and finally _pushing_ the door open, giving it a bad-tempered kick for good measure.

The tuxedo-clad host looked up at him in surprise. "Good day, sir," the little Asian guy said, his eyes flicking from the scar on Freddy's face to rake over his worn jeans and faded green plaid shirt: he obviously didn't meet the dress code for "fine dining". This only made Freddy even more pissed off. He swept by the baffled host and began prowling among the tables like a hungry carnivore – a carnivore in pursuit of Barbara McGowan. Not even the magnificent fountain that gave the restaurant its name could distract him from his purpose. He was a fucking shark cruising the waters, a tiger hunting through the jungle, an eagle scanning for –

Frizzy hair. Enormous earrings. She was at a small table lunching with some coworkers. Freddy took a deep breath and pushed up his sleeves. As he made his way across the restaurant a waitress tried to address him but he brushed her aside. Planting himself at McGowan's right elbow, the young detective crossed his arms and glared down at her.

The woman looked up at him in confused irritation. "Did you want something?" she snapped. There was a piece of lettuce stuck between her teeth.

"You have some fucking nerve, lady," said Freddy, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

"What?" the woman shrieked as her coworkers gasped and stared at Freddy in horror.

Someone behind Freddy cleared his throat, and he turned to see the nervous-looking host. "Excuse me," the host said with a little bow. "Do you have a reservation? Are you perhaps meeting someone?"

"Relax, dim sum," said Freddy with a twisted smile. "I'm not here to eat. I only wanted to have a word with this bitch here."

There were more gasps and sharp whispers from all around the restaurant. Heads were turning by the dozen, and Freddy was aware that he was being stared at by staff and patrons alike. But he didn't give a flying fuck what they thought. He needed to set the record straight with McGowan. Looking back down at the journalist, he saw that she was staring openly at the scars on his forearms. The expression on her face looked like a mixture between fascination and nausea. _That bitch! How _dare_ she?_

"I got a bone to pick with you, McGowan," he said, stabbing his finger at her so savagely that she flinched back from it. "You see, I read your little article in the paper this morning. If you're so fucking concerned with the state of the world and improving this fucking city, then why the hell did you insult the cops when they're just tryin' to do their fucking job?" He paused for a second to shrug off the host's placating hand. "You know what all this motherfucking publicity's gonna do? You're just drawing attention to your so-called Thursday fuckin' Arsonist, and it's gonna fuckin' interfere with the fuckin' investigation!" By this point Freddy's voice had risen so that he was practically bellowing in the journalist's face.

McGowan had set her jaw stubbornly throughout his tirade. "It's called freedom of the press, sonny," she replied with a nasty smile.

"Yeah? Well somebody's gotta teach you some motherfuckin' respect. You can't just make up shit like –"

"Sir? Excuse me, sir?" Freddy turned around again, and found himself face-to-face with a grey-haired Asian man in an immaculate suit. Behind him stood the anxious-looking host and several waitresses watching the scene. "I'm Mr. Chen, the manager," he said, politely but firmly. "I must ask you to leave immediately."

"Fuck that, you little chink, I haven't even started," Freddy scoffed, causing outraged exclamations to break out all over the restaurant.

Mr. Chen's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. He addressed one of the waitresses: "Call the police. Tell them we need this man escorted out."

Freddy laughed, leaning one hand on McGowan's table. He knew that everyone was looking at him like he was fucking nuts, but he didn't care. "You're calling the cops?" he giggled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He flipped it open to show his badge. "Lookie here, Chinaman. I _am_ a cop. And you're interfering with some serious cop shit right now." He didn't even bother waiting for the manager's reaction, and turned back to the reporter. "Now where were we? Oh yeah, respect. You seriously need to work on respect, lady," he exclaimed, gesturing with his hands. "I mean, what kind of a sick piece of shit takes a picture of a guy in a _coma_? What the fuck did you have to do that for?"

He was about to carry on, when someone grabbed his arm. He turned around to see Jeff this time, who was looking at him like he was crazy. "Freddy, what the fuck are you doing?" he asked in an undertone, eyes darting from side to side under his thick glasses. "Come on, man. Let's go."

Freddy was about to protest, but he suddenly realized just what he was doing. These poor bastards had all been having a regular day, enjoying their lunch, and here a madman comes bursting into the restaurant to start yelling at one of the customers. Freddy really should've known better. He let out a deep breath and nodded. "Okay, man." He turned back to McGowan, who was still glaring at him. "I think I've made my point."

He allowed Jeff to lead him away, past the fountain with a jade dragon spouting water out of its mouth. The manager, the host, and a few of the waitresses followed like a bizarre sort of honour guard. Jeff's hand was on his upper arm like a vice, practically cutting off the circulation. Did he think Freddy would throw him off and try to bolt?

As he was being forcibly steered towards the door, one of the waitresses caught Freddy's eye. It was the one who had tried unsuccessfully to intercept him on the way over to McGowan's table. Although her hair was in a bun and she was wearing the same embroidered black silk dress as the other waitresses, the snake tattoo on her arm was unmistakeable. She looked like a little doll. And she was staring at him.

Freddy had barely gotten over recognizing her before Jeff hustled him out of the restaurant. No time to exchange words, yet again. This was getting fucking weird, seeing this girl all over town. He reflected for a moment as he stood on the sidewalk outside. Jeff had let go of his arm, but had placed himself between Freddy and the door in case he tried to dash back inside and start yelling at the bitch reporter again.

"Well?" said Jeff, arms crossed. His head was tilted to the side as he watched Freddy. "Are you happy now?"

"No, surprisingly," said Freddy, scowling as he thought of McGowan.

"C'mon," said Jeff, nodding towards a patrol car waiting at the curb. Freddy slid into the back seat and Jeff got in beside him. "Back to the station," Jeff told the cop behind the wheel. They pulled out onto the road and were on their way.

"Can you roll the window down?" Freddy asked and the driver complied. Freddy fumbled out a Zippo and a cigarette, lighting it after three tries. His hands were shaking. The first deep drag made him calm, and he smoked for a while in silence.

"You cool?" asked Jeff and Freddy nodded. The younger cop gave a short laugh and shook his head. "Man, Freddy, what was up with you? I know you sure don't like that woman, but Jesus!"

Freddy didn't answer him and just kept on smoking. He really didn't know what had come over him. Normally he would've just ignored the bitch, or maybe sent her a letter or something, but he was stupid to let stuff like newspaper reports get to him. Storming over to McGowan's office, he'd just been so fucking angry. And now that it was all over, Freddy didn't know what to make of it. He didn't like it. He wouldn't lose control, please god, he wouldn't lose control, he –

Stabbing pain lanced through his right temple. "Shit!" Freddy groaned through his teeth as he bent double, cigarette falling out the window, palms pressing into the sides of his head. He'd thought his headaches were getting better.

"Is he okay?"

"A headache – don't worry, he gets these. Keep drivin', it'll be over soon."

Freddy was too preoccupied with the agony in his skull to feel grateful towards Jeff. A tiny whimper escaped him as he dug his fingers into his scalp, head nearly between his fucking knees. His toes were curling inside his shoes, his lips were drawn back from his teeth, his pulsing cranium was going to fucking explode and spatter brains all over the inside of this patrol car.

"Freddy? Where're your pills, man?"

A hand searching the pockets of his jeans, first one side then the other. A sharp rattling sound that sent white-hot needles of pain through the backs of his eyeballs.

"Here. Swallow these."

Fingers shoving two capsules between his teeth. Freddy's tongue moved them to the back of his throat, and he dry-swallowed. Then it was a waiting game. Pain ebbing, fading, but not gone. He was dimly aware of the car coming to a stop, the murmur of voices, and then – _SLAM!_

"Fuck!" Freddy's head jerked up, and he glared after the cop who was now walking to the station entrance. "That fucking asshole!"

"Feeling better?" Jeff was looking at him anxiously. "Look, man, you gotta get that checked out."

"Shut up," Freddy said, but not as viciously as he'd wanted to. The headaches were back. Fucking headaches, on top of the flashbacks, the nightmares, the difficulty sleeping, the constant fear that Vega would track him down again... He wouldn't admit it, but Jeff was right: something was wrong with him. But he couldn't let that interfere. He'd just have to put up with it.

_A/N: The waitress is the same Asian girl that Freddy saw in the tenth chapter of _Addendum I_ and the third chapter of _Addendum II_. Déjà vu?_


	5. Stuck in the Middle

**Chapter 5: Stuck in the Middle**

Freddy jogged up the staircase balancing a teetering stack of Styrofoam cartons and two cans of Pepsi. It was much easier to carry things now that his fucking ridiculous splint had been removed. The two last fingers of his left hand were taped together, but it was no worse than when he and the other foster kid Luke had played with the superglue. He exchanged brief greetings with cops he passed in the hallway, and nudged open the door of Holdaway's office with his foot.

"Freddy! Lemme help you with that." Jeff jumped up from his chair and relieved Freddy of half of his burden. Holdaway's desk was worse than a fucking pigsty, but they cleared enough room among the incomplete forms and half-read files to spread out their lunch.

"You finished with the witness?" asked Freddy as he popped open a can of Pepsi.

Jeff nodded. "She just left. What'd you get? Indian?"

They opened the steaming cartons of tandoori chicken, goat curry, samosas, rice pilaf, and naan bread. The two cops sat on opposite sides of Holdaway's desk and dug into their lunch with plastic forks. "Pretty good," said Jeff through a mouthful of curry. "I sure felt like Chinese today, though."

"Shut the fuck up," Freddy said with mock-anger, throwing a wadded-up paper napkin in Jeff's direction. Due to his heated outburst yesterday at the peak of lunch hour, he was banned from entering The Jade Dragon ever again thank you very fucking much. The story had spread all over the station within hours. Guys had been poking their heads in all morning asking Freddy to run out and get some Chinese, laughing at the pissed expression on his face.

Anyway, he was upset about being banned from the restaurant for a more particular reason: the waitress. He'd been bumping into that girl in the strangest places over the past few months, and now he knew where she worked. Maybe he could drop by sometime, wait outside until the end of her shift and – wait – what the fuck was he doing, thinking about this girl? He was _with_ someone, he was seeing Irene... who was currently out of town...

"Hey, you know Irene?" asked Jeff suddenly.

Freddy jumped as if he'd been zapped with a thousand volts, and a piece of chicken fell of his fork and onto the desk. He hoped that document wasn't important. "What?" he asked, a little too quickly. How the fuck had Jeff known what he'd been thinking?

"I forgot to mention I saw her last Friday," said Jeff, and Freddy relaxed. Jeff glanced at Freddy over the top of his Pepsi. "You remember Irene, don't you? You met her – Marvin's wife?"

"Marvin's _widow_," Freddy corrected, and immediately felt guilty. He half-heartedly tore off a piece of naan bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

Jeff lowered his head. "Oh – yeah. Yeah... Anyway, she said she was going to visit her mother. She seemed okay, but she looked a bit tense, y'know? It sure must be tough for her – without Marvin, I mean." The younger cop shook his head sadly, stirring his rice and curry around with his fork in a way that made Freddy want to punch him. "You gotta feel for the kid too. Derek. Christ, he's just a baby, and now he's gotta grow up without a fa–"

"So what did the witness say?" Freddy interrupted tersely.

The other man blinked, but soon recovered from his shock and obediently reached for his notes. Freddy took a deep breath. He had to get these thoughts out of his mind. He couldn't go snapping at Jeff for mentioning Irene. Jeff had been Marvin's friend for fuck's sake! And the poor kid had no fucking clue about the affair going on between him and Mrs. Nash.

"Ms. Vasquez said a man fitting Vega's description is living on her street. She thinks he's renting a room from her neighbour. The timing's right – he's only been there for a month or so."

"Yeah?" Freddy said through a mouthful of rice. "You think there's somethin' to it?"

"No," Jeff sighed. "But Ms. Vasquez sure does. She was practically hysterical, convinced that the Thursday Arsonist was living a few doors away. Kept saying she was worried he'd burn the house down around her." Unsurprisingly, McGowan's article that morning had been even more scathing, calling the cops idiots and making the Thursday Arsonist sound like the Anti-Christ.

Freddy swallowed thickly. "One of us should check it out. It's probably nothing, as usual..." He pushed away his Styrofoam carton and got up from his chair.

"Some of the places people say they've seen Vega..." Jeff was shaking his head. "All this hype, we're spending most of our time following bogus tips."

"That's all we can do," said Freddy. He stood in front of the map on Holdaway's office wall, a samosa in one hand and a Pepsi in the other. The map showed the LA area, with coloured pins marking the locations of all of the places that had been burned. Along the edges of the map the crime scene photos had been pinned. Freddy and Jeff had been looking for a pattern ever since the arsons began, but couldn't find one. The only feature the targeted buildings had in common was that they were all in the LA area, and that didn't narrow things down one fucking bit.

Freddy had been suspended for a month after the fiasco with Vega during the George "Dov" Dover takedown. Back at work he'd been put on the arson case, and had gone straight to Long Beach Mike. Only one of the arsons had been in the Long Beach area, the second one, an apartment in the Eastside. According to Mike, it was part of a patch of street with a long history of shady dealings and violence. Trying to find a specific connection to Vega would be next to impossible; it was hard to keep track of all the shit that went on in places like that. No luck there.

For the past couple weeks Freddy had been asking Captain Ferchetti for permission to question Pink for any leads. The Captain had refused. When asked what the odds were that Pink, a professional robber hired for a single job by Joe, would know anything about Vega, Freddy could only say that Pink had helped them before. But Ferchetti saw interviewing a guy who once worked for Vega's employer as a waste of time and expense.

Freddy swallowed the last of his samosa and squinted at the green pin that marked the most recent target. "What else do we know about the garage?" he asked, trying to avoid thinking about what had happened to him in there.

"Not much," said Jeff, gathering up the empty food cartons. "Neighbours said the house switched ownership several times. A couple of them suspected grow-ops or something. The owners are out of town. We're gonna talk to 'em when they get back." He chucked the remains of their meal into Holdaway's overflowing garbage can.

Freddy finished his drink and lit a cigarette as Jeff turned on the radio. He stood in front of the map, blowing smoke rings and looking at all of the marked places, willing a pattern to somehow emerge. Hollywood, Long Beach, South Gate, Beverly Hills, Redondo... what did these places have in common? What was linking them together? How was Vega choosing his targets?

Jeff came up beside him. "We're fucked, aren't we?"

"Pretty much," Freddy admitted. "In two days Vega's gonna set another building on fire, and we haven't a fucking clue where." They also didn't know when Vega was going to be finished with the arsons, because these targets sure as shit weren't random. Freddy was afraid that crazy bastard would one day finish his work and disappear. He couldn't let that happen. He –

Sound of a guitar on the radio. A familiar bass beat. Then the words. _Well I don't know why I came here tonight, I got the feeling that something ain't right..._

Freddy heard a strange shuffling sound, and turned to stare at Jeff's feet. The other guy wasn't moving. But someone – _someone_ was dancing. What the fuck was going on?

_Clowns to the left of me..._

Another voice on top of the band, singing along. Something was wrong with Freddy's hearing. Sounds were fading and warping, but underneath it all was that steady beat. "Freddy?" Jeff's voice. "What's wrong, man?" Everything was going black. And in his gut blossomed a growing pain.

_It's so hard to keep the smile from my face..._

Someone was in agony. He could hear them groaning. Garbled music. Time seemed to flicker and stretch. Coming up from the darkness now, sounds getting louder, more legible. Speech. Laughter. Pain in his belly getting worse and worse and oh god he couldn't stand it but he was too fucking weak to he couldn't move or see shit and what the fuck was with that fucking music?

_I'm so scared in case I'll fall off my chair, and I wonder how I'll get down the stairs..._

A strange splashing sound through the dark. Growing awareness. Pain in his stomach now raw and wrenching and terrible wanting to scream but can't apart from the kneecap the gut is the most painful –

Song ending. Cheerful final chords of music. _Stuck in the middle with you_... Screaming:

"Don't! Stop! Stop!"

"Freddy! Wake up!"

He opened his eyes and looked up at a ring of concerned faces. The pain in his gut was gone. Nobody was screaming. And the radio was now playing "Sugar, Sugar" by The Archies.

Freddy sat up slowly, aided by Jeff. The other cops backed away a little to give him some room. Some of them were whispering about relapses and shit, but Freddy didn't listen to the dumb fucks. He'd never experienced something like that before. At least, not since he'd first woken up from the coma. It scared him.

Still a bit disoriented, Freddy waved off their helping hands. "I'm all right."

"No you're not."

Like the Red Sea parting for Moses, the cops parted to let Captain Ferchetti through. The thunderous expression told him that Frankie had seen it all. Freddy knew that this time he couldn't hide his symptoms, like he'd hidden his severe headaches, or his paranoia about Vega.

He attempted a grin, looking up from his seat on the floor. "Big Brother's watching."

Frankie was not amused. "I want you to see a doctor, Newendyke."

"I ain't goin' to no doctor."

"The fuck you're not. I'm pulling you from active duty."

"What the fuck!" Freddy exploded, leaping to his feet and catching the desk to steady himself. He dimly noticed that Holdaway's office was rapidly emptying of spectators. Only Jeff stayed behind. "Vega's gonna strike again. I can't waste time goin' to some motherfucking pill-pusher!"

"You do it or you're fired." The Captain was adamant.

Freddy forced himself to take a deep breath. He stared at the floor, his mind working like crazy. Finally, he muttered, "If I see Dr. Moss after work today, can I stay on the case?"

Frankie nodded, and Freddy didn't know if he should feel good or bad about it.

_A/N: Originally Vega was supposed to dance to "Sugar, Sugar." That would've been a sight!_


	6. The Department Shrink

**Chapter 6: The Department Shrink**

The office of Dr. Moss was a movie cliché. The feel-good posters on the walls, the potted plants, the venetian blinds... the plastic model of a brain on the desk. Guys went to see the department shrink whenever they got jumpy, or on the rare occasion that they got really fucked up after a job and ended up crying in the toilet. So far as Freddy was concerned, he was in neither of these categories, although lately he'd been Dr. Moss' most frequent patient; without him the man would be out of a job. If his past appointments with Dr. Moss had been anything other than a fucking waste of time then he was the Queen of fucking England. But this time there really was something wrong with him, so he may as well make an effort.

"So, Freddy." Dr. Moss opened up the file on his desk, beaming at the young cop through thick round spectacles. "What can I do for you today?"

"Maybe you can tell me," Freddy snorted. He was uncomfortable, but if he wanted to figure out what had happened to him then he may as well cooperate a little. He gave an awkward shrug. "I dunno what's happening to me."

The psychiatrist nodded thoughtfully, pulling out a blank sheet of notepaper. Here it comes... "Tell me, Freddy," said the other man, "how's your sex life these days?"

Christ, the bastard _always_ did this! Before Freddy had pointedly ignored the question, forcing Dr. Moss to eventually move on to other topics, but that hadn't stopped the man from trying. Now, however, it was serious, and it wouldn't pay to hold anything back. "I've got a girl."

The shrink made a noise of interest, jotting something down and giving Freddy an encouraging nod. "And how is your relationship going?"

Freddy opened his mouth to answer, but found his mind drifting back. The week before Vega had kidnapped him, he'd gone to visit Irene after work.

_Unlocking the door with the spare key she'd given him and stepping inside. The blinds were drawn and the house dimly-lit: unusual. Derek not in his playpen; probably upstairs napping. A soft step beside him, he turns, and there's Irene framed in the doorway. She does not move from her spot. Just looks at him. He looks back. They don't say anything._

_The clock in the kitchen ticks on. Seconds stretch into minutes. Normally by now they'd be tearing off each others' clothes. Something isn't right – why is she looking at him that way?_

_Finally she moves towards him from the dark doorway, a shadow detaching from a shadow. Arms snaking around his neck, bringing his head down. Heat of her breath on his mouth. Lips parting. Kiss._

_Something has changed. Physical closeness, but there is a huge distance between them. And shit, he's not responding like he used to. Sensing his own mounting frustration, and hers. It's not working. He says it aloud. Her reply is low and urgent. Wait._

_Her hands moving over him, under his shirt, sharp bones of her hips shoving into his, moving, driving him against the wall. Fingers now claws, nails digging into the soft flesh of his shoulders. He responds in turn, scattering buttons from her blouse. Actions become rougher, more aggressive, and finally, at last, arousal._

"Freddy? How is your relationship with the girl?"

He blinked, trying to banish his memories of that night. But he couldn't shake the conviction that something between him and Irene had changed, and he didn't like it. He cleared his throat. "Fine," he lied easily. "It's going fine. Great, even. We've been together three months."

"That's good to hear." The corners of Dr. Moss' eyes crinkled in a smile. "Now let's get down to the matter at hand. Captain Ferchetti tells me that you collapsed earlier today." Freddy shifted in his chair with embarrassment, but Dr. Moss didn't appear to notice. "I want to know what happened to you, Freddy. Did you just pass out? Or did you experience something else?"

"I –" Freddy cleared his throat, which had gone dry. "I had a – a flashback, I guess."

"A flashback. Was it a memory? Or were you actually re-living past events?"

Freddy quickly looked up at the shrink, whose expression was mild. "I was re-living it," he said.

Dr. Moss leaned forward in his chair and clasped his hands on his desk. "Now I'd like to know, Freddy, if you've ever experienced something like that before. Think carefully."

"Well," said the young cop, twiddling his thumbs, "I've had some really vivid memories. So vivid it's like I'm dead to the rest of the world. And some other ones too, but not so serious. Just memories." Like the one he'd had a couple minutes ago. "But this was the first time I physically relived something. I mean, it was like I was there. I could feel the bullet wound." He reflexively placed his hand on his stomach. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

The psychiatrist calmly flipped to another page of the file. Freddy was about ready to scream at the guy. Here he is, finally opening up to him, and the fucking shrink is acting like it's no big deal. "Was it really the first time, though?" asked Dr. Moss. "Perhaps you went through something similar soon after you awoke from your coma?"

Freddy blinked. "I..."

"There's a name for what you have, Freddy," said the shrink. "It's post-traumatic stress disorder."

"Post – ?" Freddy laughed. "I ain't been in a war, doc."

"No," answered Dr. Moss. "But you've had a traumatic experience. PTSD is more common than you think. Symptoms include flashbacks, nightmares, difficulty sleeping... does this sound familiar?" Freddy could only gape at him. Dr. Moss gave a small smile and polished his glasses on his white coat. "Your flashback was triggered by some sort of stimulus, something related to your experience. Can you think of what that might be?"

"The song," Freddy whispered.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said, it was the song that did it," Freddy elaborated. "On the radio. It was the song that was playing when... when I was injured in the warehouse. "Stuck in the Middle With You." Stealers Wheel."

Dr. Moss put his glasses back on, blinking owlishly through the lenses. "Well I have good news, Freddy. We can treat your condition," he said. "It involves going over your experience, and gradually exposing you to thoughts and situations that remind you of the event. You had very mild PTSD after waking from your coma, but your medication – and, I believe, your statement to the police – helped treat it. Avoiding your memories of trauma is the worst thing you can do."

Freddy sulked in his chair. Dr. Moss tactfully changed the subject. "I heard of something else concerning you. A little issue in a restaurant."

Freddy gave a self-conscious grin. "Yeah, I did lose it a bit in there."

"Do you find yourself losing your temper more often? Getting irritable and angry more easily than, say, before your injury?"

"Well, I..." Shit, the doctor was right! "Yeah. Yeah I have, actually."

Dr. Moss grabbed the plastic brain from his desk. "Well Freddy, you've suffered a traumatic brain injury, what we of the medical profession call TBI. It can result in emotional instability, depression, anger, paranoia, anxiety, personality changes, mood swings... Any number of problems can occur if the brain is damaged."

"Great," Freddy said under his breath. He couldn't help thinking about bitch reporter McGowan, Vega, and Irene. They were all giving him problems right now, which was enough without suffering the effects of a fucking traumatic brain injury. And in two days Vega was going to strike somewhere else, and they had no idea where. Christ, he needed a fucking break.

But the doctor was on a roll. "You could also have suicidal thoughts, insomnia, and the inability to experience pleasure from previously-enjoyable experiences." Freddy tried not to squirm too much at that. _Christ, Irene, I'm sorry._ "On the other hand, some people with TBI become less inhibited, which can manifest in inappropriate sexual activity." Freddy definitely didn't like where this was going. "About a quarter of people with TBI become clinically depressed, and about a tenth suffer from mania –"

"Thanks, doc," said Freddy loudly, starting to get up from his chair.

"Hold on, Freddy, I'm not quite finished yet –" Dr. Moss saw the look on his face. "Ah... but we can leave all that for later." He adjusted his glasses, business-like. "Now in your case, the bullet damaged your temporal lobe, here." He tapped the purple region on the plastic brain and Freddy sat back down, reluctantly interested in a morbid sort of way. "These injuries often result in irritability and aggression. Now, the therapy you've undergone has rehabilitated you quite miraculously, but this is different. What's important is that you know why you are experiencing these feelings. You need to learn to recognize your anger and control it. To begin with, at the very least you can try to let it out in a healthy way."

Let out his anger? "Well I've been going to the shooting range pretty regularly," said Freddy.

The doctor frowned. Apparently filling a paper target with holes didn't qualify as healthy. "I would like you to keep seeing me about these problems, and we can discuss how to manage your anger. Freddy, you have to realize that you are aggravating your condition by cutting yourself off. Now I know you are resistant to the idea, but you must revisit your experiences in order to even hope for a full recovery. In short, you must _confess_ everything to someone."

Freddy barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Fucking Dr. Moss and his fucking confession theory. Freddy hadn't gone to church for years.

"That will be you first challenge," said the doctor. "If not to me, then confess to a priest. Or maybe someone else?" he added at Freddy's disgusted expression. "Is there someone you can think of?"

Freddy's thoughts turned briefly to Holdaway, McKlusky, and Jeff, but he dismissed each of them in turn.

"Perhaps if the relationship is going as well as you say it is, you can talk to your lady friend," suggested Dr. Moss.

Freddy paused to reflect, and was shocked by how easily the thought came: he couldn't talk to Irene. But that was fucked up, because logically he _should_ be able to talk to her. Out of everyone he knew she'd be able to understand. But he couldn't.

Fuck, he'd been fooling himself all along. It wasn't fair to him, or to her, or to little Derek. Their relationship should be more than just a little rough. Before it had been about understanding, but somewhere they'd lost that. He'd been avoiding her lately due to the Vega issue, but he was going to see her tomorrow. Now he really wasn't looking forward to it.

"Well, doc," said Freddy, getting up from his chair, "you've given me something to think about."

Dr. Moss beamed, and took the top off of his plastic brain. "Candy?"

_A/N: So Freddy has some major problems after being shot in the head. Researching traumatic brain injury is kind of depressing. And with all those side-effects of having a bullet to the brain, it's really no wonder The Bride went on a cold-blooded killing spree in _Kill Bill!


	7. No More Liquor Stores

**Chapter 7: No More Liquor Stores**

Walking down the street, Freddy kept thinking that he was being followed. He'd hear soft footsteps behind him, but whenever he stopped and turned around there was nobody there. Granted, in this quiet suburban neighbourhood a tail could easily duck into the shadows or jump behind some fucking hedges. He shouldn't have left the car so far away from Irene's house. He hadn't wanted to take the day off – lately he'd been working Wednesdays too – but Ferchetti and Holdaway had insisted. He'd been putting off visiting Irene all day, but he knew she'd be expecting it after she'd been away visiting her mother. Now he wasn't sure that it was such a good idea.

In a place like this, inhabited by happy little nuclear families with their lawnmowers and tricycles and fucking dogs, anything could happen and people would be too scared to call it in. The evils of suburban life. Shit, in the city at least you had cops patrolling the streets twenty-four hours a day. But in a quiet place like this with all those quiet people in their quiet houses, a guy could sneak up behind you and slit your throat with a razor and nobody would do a goddamn thing. Shit, a man could probably empty a full magazine into your back and walk away. Freddy cursed quietly; he should've known better!

There were the footsteps again. He stopped suddenly, but couldn't hear anything in the ensuing silence except the faint sounds of someone practicing the piano in one of the curtained houses. Vega knew he was a cop. Shit, Vega knew his name. He could've found out where Freddy lived. Maybe he'd followed him from his apartment – Freddy hadn't checked for tails on his way over. He couldn't believe he'd been so fucking stupid. Freddy put his hand under his jacket, and felt the comforting weight of his gun. He loosened it in the holster so that he'd be ready to draw it quickly, and kept walking. These days he wore a second gun in his ankle holster, just in case.

He kept walking and didn't hear anyone following him, but still he sped up, glancing over his shoulder, until he was practically running. He was out of breath when he jogged up the driveway to pause on the Nash doorstep. He fumbled in his pocket for the key, swearing under his breath, heart pounding, and let himself in.

"Irene?"

Derek was in his playpen watching cartoons and drinking juice from a sippy cup. A vacuum turned off and Irene appeared on the stairs. "Freddy!" she said brightly. "Come on up." He followed her to the guest bedroom; there was a tacit agreement to never use the bed she had once shared with Marvin.

Irene sat on the quilt, but he remained standing. She looked nice, Freddy thought. He'd never really liked girls with short hair, but it looked great on her. Even from here he could smell her perfume. Quite a looker, and fun to be with.

But despite all of this, there was still that distance between them, and Freddy thought he knew why. Irene had been extremely upset over what Vega had done to him. While visiting him in hospital, she had asked if that was what Vega had done to Marvin before he'd died, but Freddy wouldn't talk to her about that. Their shared guilt about insulting Marvin's memory had always been hanging between them. But ever since Vega's attack, Freddy had become even more of a reminder of her husband than before. And if they couldn't connect over that, then it was just a physical thing now. Meaningless. Pure sensation.

"I see they took the splint off," said Irene, making polite conversation. Her casual tone was obviously a front. Freddy was a hell of a liar, and he could usually tell when someone wasn't being completely honest. He decided not to call her on it.

"Yeah." He held up his taped fingers.

There was another awkward silence. Finally Irene got up from the bed, and put her hands on his shoulders. Freddy stopped her gently and uncertainly. "If you don't want to..."

"I want to," Irene insisted. _Liar_. She kissed him, but something wasn't right. It was like kissing a stranger. It wasn't working for him, and he didn't think it was working for her either. He could sense her mounting frustration through his own, and drew back.

"Look," he said, confused, flustered. "I dunno what's wrong..."

"Freddy? Shut up." There was a hard look on Irene's face, and she grabbed him around the neck and kissed him almost brutally. Her teeth nicked his lip and she slid her hands up his shirt.

As things became more heated, he suddenly grabbed her arms and pulled away. This was all wrong. No more tenderness, compassion gone. Empty. "Wait. Stop." Irene stared at him, the expression on her flushed face unreadable. Normally he wouldn't think twice about banging this girl, but this situation was just too screwed up to ignore. Everything had changed between them. His brain won out over his prick, and he backed away from her, which was a pretty hard fucking thing to do. "We can't keep doing this. Not now."

"You want to break it off." It was not a question, but Freddy nodded. Irene bit her lip and looked away, considering. Even amid his fucked-up thoughts, Freddy noticed that she didn't look all that surprised. He held his breath as he waited.

"I think you're right."

On his way out Freddy stopped and picked up Derek. He liked the kid, but damn it, he too was a constant reminder of Marvin. Freddy had to move on. They both did.

Irene took Derek from his arms, and he put the spare key on a side table. "Freddy?" He stopped, turning in the doorway. "Is there someone else?"

The corner of his mouth curved up into a half-smile. "Not yet."

Irene smiled back. "I hope you find her."

The walk back to his car was nerve-wracking at best. He kept half-suspecting Vega to jump out of the bushes with a screwdriver in one hand and a saw in the other. But once he got into his car, he found himself relaxing.

Driving down the street, he felt sad but strangely relieved and liberated. For some reason he found himself wondering about the Asian girl, the waitress in the Jade Dragon. But he was banned from that restaurant. If it came down to finding company for a night, he could always proposition his favourite nurse, Strawberry Blonde. Or Susan, the Marilyn Monroe lookalike at Jack Rabbit Slim's. It's not like he didn't have any options. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath, meeting his own gaze in the rear-view mirror. "You're fucking unbelievable, Freddy. Not a block away from Irene's house and you're already thinking about that?"

What he needed right now was to get fucking drunk. He had a few hours left in the day, and it wasn't like he was sleeping through nights anymore. But... what if Vega decided to call on him while he was fucking plastered? He couldn't put up much of a fight then. Shit, the crazy asshole was probably following him right now – again he'd forgotten to check for tails! Freddy glanced at the cars behind him, and at the next intersection he pulled a sudden left turn, leaving cars screeching and honking behind him. "Take that, motherfucker," Freddy muttered, watching to make sure that nobody followed him. If Vega had been tailing him, he'd shaken him off.

Freddy stopped at a liquor store, which was nearly empty. An elderly man was browsing in the wine section, a few kids were picking up some cases of beer, and a young couple was hanging around the hard liquor.

As Freddy grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's, he watched the couple out of the corner of his eye. They were looking shifty, and seemed to be having a quiet argument. He moved closer, pretending to read the labels on the bottles of vodka.

"What've I been telling you? No more fucking liquor stores! I only came in here to get some bloody Guinness," the man was saying. He had a working-class English accent, and wore one of the loudest shirts Freddy had ever seen.

"You think I believe that?" asked the woman teasingly. "You're like a broken record, every single time, always saying you're never gonna do it again."

"Fucking right I'm not," the man answered. "I already told you that what we've been doin' is too fucking dangerous. D'you remember what happened in that diner? Nearly got my bloody head blown off in there. And now I'm going fucking crazy, wondering if every single fucking place we think of robbing has a fucking professional killer with a fucking gun in his pocket. Forget it."

Shit, these two were thinking of robbing the place? Freddy glanced over surreptitiously. There – the man had a gun stuck in the back of his jeans, hidden under the shirt. The woman was probably carrying a piece in her handbag. He saw the rings on their fingers. Married thieves. Freddy was sorely tempted to just walk out of the door and not get involved. Shit, his day had already been terrible, breaking up with Irene, not counting yesterday's flashback and visit with Dr. Moss. But he was a cop, and he had to do his fucking duty. He walked over to the couple.

"...keep saying you're through." The woman broke off and glanced at him as he tapped the man's shoulder. But before he could say anything, she asked her partner in matrimony and crime: "Pumpkin? D'you know this guy?" She turned to Freddy and said, "You his kid brother or something?"

Freddy couldn't help feeling slightly offended that she thought he was related to an English petty criminal. "No, I'm not." He looked at the man, who he had to admit bore a slight resemblance to him, though Freddy had better fashion sense. "Sorry to interrupt, guys, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."

The man's upper lip lifted into a sneer. "Yeah? Well why don't you mind your own fucking business?"

Freddy resisted the urge to punch this guy in the face – the woman would probably blast his head off – and gave a big fake smile. "I can't, because I'm a cop." The robbers tensed, hands twitching for their weapons. "Don't move, I know you're packing," he said pleasantly. "But so far you haven't broken the law. Technically I should haul your asses back to the station, but I'm going through some really rough shit right now. Shit you two can't even imagine."

The couple exchanged glances. They obviously thought he was fucking nuts.

"You don't believe me? All right. Last week I was tortured by a psychopath with tools he found in an old garage. He gave me this." Freddy held up his broken finger. "Now I've got a cop monitoring my place twenty-four seven in case he decides to pay a little visit for a repeat session. There's this bitch reporter who won't stop badmouthing my investigation. And yesterday my shrink told me I've got mental problems because I was shot in the head – did I mention I'm on medication? He wants me to keep going to him for therapy or some shit like that." Freddy smirked at their stunned expressions. "Oh, I haven't got to the best part yet. See, today – just a few fucking minutes ago – I broke up with my girlfriend cuz she can't get over her dead husband. It was a fuckin' shame. Now, I can see you're wearing guns – I'm wearing two. And I'm beggin' you, don't do anything fucking stupid because I can't fucking deal with any more shit right now. It's late, I'm pissed, and I'm just lookin' to take it out on someone. Okay?"

They were both staring at him with their mouths slightly open. Finally, the woman licked her lips and spoke to her partner out of the corner of her mouth: "What d'you think, Pumpkin?"

The man cleared his throat. "I think we should be going, Honeybunny."

They went.

Freddy took his bottles to the counter. "I don't fucking believe this," he muttered as he dug money out of his wallet. Shit, he was gonna get fucking drunk tonight.

_A/N: Our two favourite thieves from_ Pulp Fiction._ Gee, Freddy's going through a lot right now. I'm leaving on a short vacation, so expect the next update in about two weeks._


	8. Surprise

**Chapter 8: Surprise**

Freddy stomped up the stairs of his apartment. It was just before midnight. Thursday. He paused on the landing, breathing hard through his nose, heart pounding like he was about to have a fucking heart attack. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!" He slammed his hand against the wall, and was answered by muffled shouting from one of his neighbours. "Sorry," he called out, and continued up to his apartment.

There was a reason why Freddy was so angry, and it wasn't just the brain injury. The Thursday Arsonist had struck again that afternoon. This time Vega had hit a warehouse in Wilmington. By the time Freddy and Jeff had arrived, firefighters were working to control the blaze and they'd had to stand well back from the searing heat. The whole place was up in flames. Several people had been wounded, and three had been killed – the first fatalities. The last time Freddy had felt so helpless, he'd been lying on a warehouse floor talking to Marvin. This warehouse fire would be all over the news tomorrow, and then the pressure would really be on for them to catch Vega.

It had been a long day, and Freddy was glad to be home. He'd stopped to say hello to the cop stationed in a car across the street from his apartment. Tonight it was Brad McKlusky, husband of the computer operator. A good guy, even if he was a Texan.

Freddy unlocked the door of his apartment and switched on the lights. He threw off his jacket and went through the now-familiar motions of taking off his belt holster and his ankle holster. As he put his foot up on a chair and undid the straps, he paused. Sitting on his table was a bundled up towel. Freddy didn't recognize it.

He finished removing the ankle holster, then slowly straightened up and reached for the towel. Pulling back one of the corners, Freddy found a note. His hands shook slightly as he unfolded it. As soon as he read the words a cold sweat broke out all over his body, and he started shaking so badly that he could barely hold onto the paper. His broken finger began to throb painfully, and his heart was beating against his ribs like a fucking piston. "Shit..." he said, looking down at the message again. The writing was a bold scrawl, in blue ballpoint:

Surprise! You'll be hearing from me.

– Mr. Blonde

He dropped the note, then reached out for the bundle with a trembling hand. His instincts were screaming at him to just leave it alone. As if from a distance he could hear his rapid shallow breathing. His throat was dry. His heart was going to explode. His intestines had turned to ice. But still he reached forward and slowly drew aside the folds of the towel.

Nestled within the soft fabric, lying in a dark patch of drying blood, was a burned and blistered ear.

Freddy collapsed to his knees and threw up, coughing vomit all over the floor. "Oh Jesus," he gasped, spitting bile onto the ground. "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." Even amidst his terror he detected warning signs of rising hysteria, and forced himself to shut the fuck up and take some deep breaths. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he pushed himself to his feet. A glance at the severed ear in the towel caused him to dry-retch again, and he leaned on the table as he fought down his nausea.

When he'd finally gotten a fucking grip, he jogged shakily down the apartment stairs and across the road. He approached the police car and rapped on the driver's-side door. Inside, Brad jumped and looked up, then rolled down the window. "Jesus, Freddy, you scared me!" the cop said.

"Did you see anyone come in?" Freddy asked, leaning on the side of the car. His voice was low and urgent. "Anyone who wasn't one of the usual tenants?"

The cop frowned and scratched his ear. "Naw, man. And Rich an' David didn't see nothin' either on the earlier shifts. Why, what's goin' on?"

Freddy licked his lips. "I found a note from Vega. In my apartment. And a... surprise gift. S- someone's ear."

The other cop gave a disbelieving laugh. "This is another Freddy joke, right?" His grin faded when he saw the expression on the younger man's face. "Holy shit..."

"You coming?" asked Freddy. Brad didn't waste time with questions, and soon they were up the stairs and in the apartment.

"Jesus, man..." Brad whispered. He was staring at the bloody bundle, but Freddy couldn't even look at it. He stared determinedly at his ugly green couch while Brad radioed the station.

"Hey Brad?" he said suddenly. "I'm going up to the roof to get some air." The other cop looked at him with concern, and even a bit of suspicion, but nodded.

On the roof of the building and out of sight from anyone else, Freddy let his control slip. His whole body started shaking and his breath caught in his throat. He fumbled for his cigarettes, cursing when he dropped them and knelt down to gather them up, stuffing all but one of them back into the pack. It took him eight tries to light the damn thing. He inhaled hungrily, reducing the cigarette to a stick of ash in under a minute. By the time he was on his third, he was calm again.

He strolled over to the edge of the roof and leaned against the wall, resting his forehead on the cold concrete and closing his eyes. Nearly dozing, he found himself remembering his comatose state. On his way to waking up, there had been only a thread of consciousness, back when sound was his universe. Sound and the darkness. But it was different now. He could never get back to that, a situation without fears or worries or even coherent thoughts.

As if from far away he heard the cop cars arriving, and listened with detached curiosity to people going through his apartment. The sound carried up from his window, which had been opened to let out the smell of vomit. He'd really made a fool of himself back there. Before the robbery – heck, before Vega had tortured him – he would never have lost his supper at the sight of a severed ear. What was wrong with him?

There was the sound of a door opening, and then footsteps on concrete. He turned to see Holdaway, a familiar figure wearing a Lakers sweatshirt, faded jeans, and sandals.

Freddy lowered his cigarette and tried to blow a smoke ring, but it collapsed into a shapeless cloud. He attempted a grin. "Did you fucking see it?" He was disturbed by the quaver in his voice, and to cover his agitation he took another drag.

"Yeah." Holdaway took a couple steps closer, hands in his pockets. "Brad showed it to me. Seems Vega took the ear off some poor bastard caught in the fire today."

"Shit..." Freddy flicked the cigarette butt away and leaned back against the wall, holding the backs of his arms. "The motherfucker's after me, man." He didn't bother to hide the fear in his voice. It was too far gone for that. "You see what he wrote me? And now he knows where I fuckin' live. I mean, _shit_. What am I gonna do?"

Holdaway was silent for a moment, mulling something over. Freddy scuffed his sneaker into the ground.

"Remember when Jeff and I were comparing scars?"

Freddy managed a smile. "Yeah. And then McKlusky walked in when you dropped your pants."

Holdaway's teeth flashed white in the darkness. "That's right. You saw the scar, right? Knife wound, on my leg."

"It looked pretty bad," Freddy remarked. "I wondered where you'd gotten it."

"Well shut up for a fuckin' moment and I'll tell ya." Holdaway paced back and forth, and Freddy watched him silently, waiting for him to begin. Like their old lessons. "Way back in the seventies I was put on my first undercover case. It was me and another guy, Dargus – mean son of a bitch, but on the right side. He runs a detective agency now. Anyway, we're posing as buyers in this drug deal, right?" Holdaway suddenly stopped and jabbed a finger in Freddy's direction. "Narcotics is a fucked-up business, Newendyke. It's serious shit. Don't get involved, man, not if you don't have to." The older man resumed his pacing. Freddy rolled his eyes but said nothing. "So we're doin' the trade, right, but one of the guys starts feelin' a little jumpy. He just won't settle his ass down, y'know? Says he has a bad feeling and shit. Little motherfucker was right, but everything still woulda gone smooth as cherry pie if one of the cops didn't move in early. I dunno what the fuck that stupid piece of shit was thinkin', but before you know it bullets are flyin' everywhere, man." He stopped to take a few breaths.

"And that's when you got stabbed?"

"Shut the fuck up, Freddy. Who's tellin' the story here?"

Freddy grinned. As he watched the older cop talk, waving his arms animatedly, he was suddenly struck by the thought that they were standing exactly where they had been when Holdaway had first given him the commode story. _That's an amusing anecdote about a drug deal._

"So I end up chasin' one of the guys, the jumpy prick. By then our guns are both fuckin' empty, so it's just me and him. I tackle him to the ground – y'know, diving into his legs and shit? We're fightin' and punchin' and kickin' like a couple of alley cats. Then he pulls a fuckin' blade, man." Holdaway shook his head. "We never did catch the motherfucker who did this to me." His hand brushed his thigh.

There was silence as Freddy pondered the story. He knew the drill. Holdaway had just told him something really personal, what that nosy prick Dr. Moss would call a "confession." And now it was his cue to make one in return. Holdaway had come up here and voluntarily shared his story, to let Freddy spill what was on _his_ mind without looking like a fucking pussy. Freddy knew it was a really decent thing for his mentor to do, but that just made his situation worse, because he didn't want to talk about any of it. He didn't want to recount his moments of abject terror with Vega in the garage. More importantly, he didn't want to talk about the robbery. Sure, he'd given his report after recovering from the coma, but that had just been the facts. It had been hard enough without dwelling on how he'd felt about it. No, he couldn't tell anyone about Larry, or his moments with Marvin, or any of it. He just fucking couldn't.

"That's a real shame, man," he managed to choke out.

Holdaway's face fell when he realized that Freddy wasn't going to share. Freddy took out another cigarette and concentrated on lighting it, cupping his hands around the flame to avoid looking directly at the other cop. He'd finally stopped shaking, at least. He was a nervous wreck. It had never been this bad before.

"Yeah, it was a fuckin' shame. Listen, Freddy –" Holdaway grabbed his shoulder and shook it lightly. "Shit like this," he nodded down at Freddy's apartment, "it can really fuck you up, man. Look, if you wanna take a break from the case–"

"No, no, no." Freddy waved his hand dismissively. "The only thing I want right now is to stay _on_ the case, Jim. I know what you're gonna say. I should relax, take some time off, all that bullshit. But I know Vega, or I know him well enough, and it's at the point where I just can't sit safe at home while he's out there." Holdaway was looking at him seriously, but Freddy thought that he understood. "I keep tellin' myself that I just have to catch him, and everything will be okay." He gave a quiet laugh. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

Holdaway slung his arm around Freddy's neck and led him back to the stairwell door. "I wish I coulda had the chance to catch the piece of shit who hurt me. I hope you get him too, man."

_A/N: I'm back! Blonde, you sick, sick bastard. It's crazy, but I love writing about Blonde even when he's not physically present in a scene. Dargus was the name of a cop in _Jackie Brown_; maybe Holdaway's old partner was that guy's uncle or something._


	9. Orange and Pink

**Chapter 9: Orange and Pink**

When Freddy walked through the door, the prisoner sitting at the table smirked and said, "You again."

"Yup, me again." Freddy sat down in the hard chair, tried to get comfortable, gave up, and put his bag on the ground. "Nice to see you too, Mr. Pink. How's jail treatin' you? It's been – what? – four months since my last visit?"

"Four months and three days, and fuck you too Orange," the convict answered smoothly. "I suppose you're here for more information, probably something relating to Joe. I mean, why else would you be here? It's not like I – hey, what happened to _you_?" He was staring at Freddy's taped fingers.

Still the same old Pink. Ferchetti had finally agreed to the visit, given the disastrous consequences of yesterday's warehouse fire, the little surprise left in Freddy's apartment by Vega, and the morning's news reports. Pink was pretty much the last person left who Freddy could think of to ask for help. A long shot admittedly, but what else could he do? "I shut my hand in a door," he drawled, leaning down to unzip the bag. Pink's bulbous blue eyes watched unblinkingly as he set a single can of beer on the table. "Thought I'd bring you something, a little reunion present. But maybe you don't want it."

Pink grinned and shook his head, brushing his hair off his forehead with his cuffed hands. A nervous gesture. "You're a fucking bastard, you know that?"

Freddy couldn't hold back a small giggle. It was strange. They were like a couple of pals teasing each other. But he knew that Pink saw him as the lowest of the low for being a rat, and he sure as hell didn't think fondly of a crooked bastard like Pink. "Oh, all right," he said with an exaggerated sigh, and slid the can across the table.

Grabbing it with his cuffed hands, nails scrabbling on the metal tab, Pink fought to open the can of beer. Freddy thought he looked like a manic squirrel trying to crack open a nut. The can finally opened with a satisfying snap and Pink gulped down the beer thirstily, nearly choking himself. Freddy watched with detached interest. "I did come for information, actually," he said as casually as he could. "It's about an old buddy of ours."

Pink lowered the can and wiped his mouth awkwardly on his shirt cuff. "Mr. Blonde?" he asked. "What's that psycho up to now?"

"He's responsible for a bunch of arsons in the LA area," said Freddy. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his bag. "I got a list here of all the locations, and I want you to take a look and tell me if you see anything–"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." Pink held up his cuffed hands. "Hold on for a second there, Orange. Put your fucking list away. You know you can't just waltz in here whenever you need some information, and have me dragged out, and then throw me back in when you're done. I'm not exactly gettin' anything outta these visits." At Freddy's pointed glance he pushed the half-drunk can of beer away. "Your shitty lukewarm beer ain't gonna do the trick, pal."

Freddy crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "If you're not gonna cooperate, then why did you agree to see me? You know I'm not gonna get you a transfer or any of that bribery shit."

Pink gave another one of his half-smiles. "Look man, I ain't exactly Mister Popular in here, okay? I got no family that I care about, so even a visit from _you_ is a fuckin' vacation."

"I'm only here for information, Pink. There's other things I could be doing on a Friday afternoon," Freddy pointed out. "It's not exactly a social call."

"Well you can kiss my cooperation goodbye then, 'cuz I ain't gonna help you. And I really don't give a fuck what you do to me now, because as far as I'm concerned I'm in the last circle of hell already, so you can just save your melodramatic threats for someone who actually gives a damn." Tirade done, he leaned back in his chair and muttered, "Fucking cops..."

Freddy didn't quite know what to say. He sure as shit hadn't expected this. But on reflection, he could imagine that life in jail would be a pretty limited experience, so any chance to shoot the breeze with someone you didn't have to worry about sticking a shiv in your gut would be a welcome opportunity. For a guy as neurotic as Pink, living in jail without his daily bucket of coffee just had to be a pretty damn stressful situation. Freddy pondered for a moment, then decided he really didn't have anything to lose. "Okay," he said with a small smile. He'd play Pink's game. "What do you wanna talk about?"

"Hell, I dunno," said the convict, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "Tell me a funny story."

Freddy's colleagues had repeatedly told him that his sense of humour was fucked up, so Pink had pretty much asked the impossible. "I don't know any funny stories," he admitted, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

"That's bullshit, Orange. Everyone knows a funny story. Even my mother knows a funny story." The convict's eyes suddenly lit up. "Hey, wait! I know – what about the one you told Eddie?" At Freddy's blank look, he pressed on excitedly. "You know, the one you told Nice Guy Eddie before the job, man. Remember when we went to pick you up for that first planning meeting with Joe? You do? Well, when I was in the car with Eddie and Mr. White, Eddie mentioned that you'd told them a funny story about some drug deal. He tried to tell it to me, but he kept forgetting things and going back and it wasn't really funny when he told it. And then Mr. White said you kinda had to be there."

Freddy couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Nice Guy told you about the commode story?" he said slowly.

"Yeah, he did. What? You fuckin' made it up?"

"Yes."

"Seriously, man? All that shit wasn't real?"

"I said, yes," Freddy replied, louder. "I was undercover, Pink. I had to gain their trust. I rehearsed that fuckin' story for days."

"Jesus." Pink reflected for a moment. "Well I still wanna hear the story."

Freddy laughed, but stopped short at the earnest look on the criminal's face. "You – why?"

Pink shrugged. "I dunno, I heard it was pretty funny. Doesn't matter if it ain't true, man. And from a professional standpoint, I'm kinda curious about what an undercover cop sounds like."

Freddy couldn't believe it. "You _know_ what an undercover cop sounds like," he pointed out, rolling his eyes. "I did a fuckin' job with you, man. _All_ that shit was undercover. And I'm sorry, but I'm not gonna tell you the commode story. I couldn't tell it good anyway, not here."

"What a fuckin' gyp." Pink rolled his eyes. "Well you gotta tell me somethin' if you want my cooperation, because so far this has been a fucking lousy conversation, man. To you this might just be part of your job, but for me this is my day off. I know you wanna just get some answers outta me and then throw me back in the can. Well it ain't gonna be that way, buddy."

"Well what the fuck d'you wanna know then?" asked Freddy, throwing up his hands in exasperation. You could go crazy talking with this guy.

Pink was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, twiddling his thumbs in a way that made Freddy want to sock him in the jaw. But he didn't think that would get the guy to cooperate. "I see you're not wearing your wedding ring," Pink remarked, "which means you lied about that too. I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, after pretending to be a thief when you're really a cop, what's a couple more lies? Who fucking cares if you're married or not?" Freddy opened his mouth to retort, but Pink beat him to it: "You got a girlfriend, Orange?"

Freddy stared at the other man. He was about to tell Pink to fucking mind his own business, but he managed to rein in his temper. Maybe Dr. Moss had been right about him. He had to keep control of his anger. Just go along with Pink, and then he'd get the information he wanted. "I did, for a while," he said reluctantly. "Not anymore."

"Yeah, they can be a fuckin' pain in the ass to keep." Pink started to absent-mindedly sip his beer again. "I had this one girlfriend, she drove me crazy. Remember in the car when I said that black women ain't the same as white women?"

Freddy nodded. "She was black?"

"Fuckin' right she's black. _I'm from Ladora Heights, that's the black Beverly Hills_," the convict mimicked in a high-pitched voice. "Fuckin' bitch." He took another large gulp of beer.

Freddy raised his eyebrows. "You were quoting her?"

"Shut up."

"So why'd she call it quits?" asked Freddy, interested now.

Pink glared at him. "Why the fuck do you think, Orange? I crossed her line." Pink drained the can of beer and bad-temperedly crumpled it in his hand. "Shit... You know what? Enough of this heart-to-heart bullshit. Just gimme the fucking list, all right?"

Freddy glanced at the names and addresses of nine locations in LA that had been burned down by Vega. "Do you recognize any of these places?" he asked, sliding the paper across the table.

Pink looked down at the sheet of paper, squinting at the names. "A pub on Sunset... an apartment in Eastside Long Beach... a South Gate parking lot... Jesus, Orange, what the fuck is Blonde doing, burning these places?"

"Just tell me if they're familiar," said Freddy. After a pause, he added, "Maybe Joe has connections to some of 'em?"

The robber rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Now I'm not one hundred percent sure about this, but I think Joe mentioned this place to me." His finger landed on the fifth item down. "The restaurant in Redondo Beach. Joe once told a story about how he and some of his boys went over there and roughed up the owner for overcharging his dinner. Emptied out the register."

"Could Vega have been one of the boys?" asked Freddy, his heart starting to race in excitement. _Please, please, please..._

Pink shrugged. "I dunno. Could be, man. It's just a guess, I don't definitely know."

Freddy took back the list and went quiet as his mind worked overtime. If Joe had hit that place, then what about the others? Perhaps they'd been hit by Vega too while working for Joe? He clutched the paper in both hands, eyes racing over the names, before stopping at the ninth and last location. A warehouse. _The guy you just killed just got released from prison. He got caught at a company warehouse full of hot items. He could've fuckin' walked._

The last place Vega had burned before doing time. If the warehouse checked out, then there was only one target left from after Vega got out of prison: Karina's Wholesale Diamonds. Vega's last place left to burn, and their last chance to apprehend him. All of a sudden, Freddy understood. Vega was destroying his ties with the Cabots, and once that was done he could leave LA.

"Jesus," Freddy breathed. "He's giving us his fucking resumé." The chair scraped the floor as he got up abruptly from his seat. "Thanks," he said quickly to a very confused Mr. Pink, before rushing out of the room. _Gotcha._

_A/N: I like Pink too much to leave him alone; he's probably bored to death in jail anyway. We're nearly there! Three chapters left._


	10. Back at Karina's

**Chapter 10: Back at Karina's**

Jeff grabbed the door handle, then turned to Freddy. "You sure you're up for this?"

Freddy gave the younger cop a mock-glare. "What is this, my first day of nursery school? Course I'm up for it. Just open the fucking door already."

Jeff pulled open the door giving a deep mock-bow, and Freddy punched him on the shoulder as he walked by. The brick building with its narrow windows gave no indication of what was inside: Karina's Fine Diamonds was one glitzy place. Display cases lined three walls, and a huge square island of glass cases took up the middle of the floor, manned by five clerks.

Coming up behind Freddy, Jeff let out a low whistle. "Jeez, will you look at that," he murmured.

It was Sunday morning, which meant that there weren't many customers around. A young couple was looking at rings on one side of the island, and the available clerks turned polite smiles on Freddy and Jeff as they walked up.

"Jeffrey Andrews, LAPD," said the young cop, flashing his badge. "We're here to speak to the manager."

The clerk nodded. "Mr. Goins has been expecting you." She motioned towards a man in a suit standing near the back by an open display case.

Freddy and Jeff strolled over and introduced themselves. "Nice to meet you," Mr. Goins was saying. He smiled uneasily and dry-washed his hands. "You mentioned over the phone that you were interested in working with my store, but I'm still not quite sure what you want from us."

As Jeff explained the situation to Mr. Goins, Freddy leaned against a glass case and looked around the store. It had been another quiet Sunday morning, a lot like this one. But he hadn't started the job inside the store. No, he...

...was standing outside, nervous as hell, sweaty palm sticking to his gun. Leaning against the narrow pillar of brick separating the two glass doors he was guarding. Brown was parked across the road, and the other guys had just gone in. There'd been some shouting at first, no shots fired, and now it was quiet. But shit, he was fucking scared. He hadn't been sure about this, about the cops letting the robbery go ahead, but Holdaway had said... what had he said? It was a "calculated risk", that was it. He'd said they had to catch Cabot with the loot. Well, fuck Holdaway, because Freddy was about to have a fucking heart attack waiting here. About thirty seconds had gone by. The job would take two minutes, tops. And then, God willing, they'd be out of –

High-pitched sound ringing clanging hurting his fucking ears and what the fuck someone had pulled the alarm! "Shit," Freddy hissed under his breath. He whirled around and pushed through one of the doors. Sweeping his gaze across the room, he quickly took in the situation. Blue was on the left, Blonde was on the right, Customers and employees were kneeling on the ground, and Pink and White were coming out of the back to see what was going on.

_BLAM!_

Freddy nearly jumped out of his skin. There were a few stifled screams. And Blonde... he was pointing his gun at a clerk who slumped over a display case, blood pooling over the top of the glass. Poor bastard had pulled the alarm. _Fuck._ White was shouting at Blonde, who wasn't paying any attention. Shit, it'd been Freddy's job to make sure this situation didn't get out of control! But now a shot had been fired and a man was dead and he'd fucked it all up and the cops would move in from across the street and then all of his work would be for fucking nothing but then at least it wouldn't be his fucking problem anymore.

_BLAM!_

"Jesus Christ, Blonde!" Pink yelped, lowering his hands from his ears. Blonde had just fired a shot into the skull of a woman kneeling on the floor in front of him. One of the other clerks who had been manning the central display case with the alarm-puller. Now what was Blonde doing? Oh shit, was he –?

_BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!_

Down they went like bowling pins. It was a fucking execution. Freddy felt a huge lump of ice deep in his gut. The customers and other employees were screaming. Shit, he had to do something. Blonde was a fucking madman, he had to do something! Holdaway had told him not to break cover no matter what happened, but what did you do when one of the guys started killing people? And what the fuck was Blonde doing, pointing his gun at the others kneeling on the floor? Oh, _shit_...

Shots rang out and bullets flew, smashing glass and bone. Blonde stood, cool as a cucumber, slowly working his way around the room like a lethal carousel. One of the customers, a black girl, scrambled up from the floor and ran for the back as Blonde silenced her screaming boyfriend. He deftly filled her with bullets, narrowly missing White who dropped to the floor to avoid fire. Blonde calmly reloaded and finished his work, a grim, staring, methodical psychopath.

By the end of it Freddy's mind was a panicked blank, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Shit, he had to be dreaming, this was a motherfucking dream, no way could this be happening, no way –

White was yelling at Blonde, pissed as hell as he got up from the floor brushing glass from his clothes. Pink had ducked into the back for cover, but now he poked his head out and stared at Blonde like he was fucking nuts. Blonde took off his shades and carefully cleaned them on his shirt before slipping them back on. And Blue? He was standing quietly in a corner by the window, looking out onto the street. "Hey!" he yelled, causing White to cut his angry rant short. "It's the cops!"

White and Pink dashed across the store, carefully avoiding bodies and glass, and looked out of the windows. Freddy looked through the glass door he had entered and watched the boys in blue haring across the street, firearms out. There were over a dozen of them. Thank fucking god. The cops were moving in and this would all be over soon.

Mr. Blue still had his cigar clenched between his teeth as he calmly checked his gun. Jesus, the jewellery store had turned into fucking Bosnia and that old thief was the calmest of them all. Fucking unbelievable. Blue was looking out the window, and over shrill sound of the alarm Freddy could hear one of the cops speaking through a megaphone. Ordering them to put down their weapons and come out of there. Freddy glanced across at White, and the older man's jaw was set. Freddy realized there was no way in hell he was going to surrender. Oh fucking hell...

Blue smashed the window with his elbow. He raised his gun, aimed, and fired almost casually. The voice over the megaphone abruptly stopped.

"Shit," Freddy whispered shakily, looking at Mr. Blue by the window, Mr. White checking his guns, Mr. Pink cursing nonstop under his breath, Mr. Blonde strolling over to another window and preparing to open fire.

Almost simultaneously Blonde and Blue began shooting, and the cops started to shoot back. Freddy rolled and took cover behind the narrow pillar separating the two glass doors. Bullets were shattering the glass; he was stuck under heavy fire. He couldn't even pretend to attack the cops. All he could do now was take cover and pray to god he wouldn't get shot. That would be fucking irony, wouldn't it?

He glanced to the side where White was firing through a window with two guns at once. Freddy could tell he was doing damage. After a while, the amount of bullets coming in grew much less than the amount of bullets going out. And no wonder; the robbers had a fucking brick wall to hide behind whereas the cops had jack shit.

Sirens and roaring engines – a second wave of cops, responding to the alarm.

"_Shit_!" Pink shouted, ripping off his shades and peering cautiously through his narrow window. "We got fuckin' patrol cars coming!" He took a wild look around the room and bolted to the back. Was he getting the fuck out of there? Was he grabbing the loot? Freddy didn't give a flying fuck right now.

Screeching tires and hysterical yelling – Mr. Brown had just pulled up.

"C'mon, we gotta go." White was shaking him by the shoulder. Freddy allowed himself to be helped to his feet, and he and White stumbled out of one of the bullet-ridden glass doors. Brown had brought the car up half onto the sidewalk, and was shrieking at them to hurry the fuck up. Freddy stared at the cops, dead, injured, who the fuck knew. Some of them were still firing, too, and from the sound of it Blonde and Blue weren't stopping either. White grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him into the backseat.

Sirens louder, more patrol cars racing down the street and emerging from alleys, burning rubber. Uniformed cops tumbling out and taking cover behind open doors. Brown looked out of the driver's-side window as White clambered in after Freddy. The glass shattered and he let out a grunt, his head jerking back.

Freddy couldn't believe it – their driver had just been shot _in the fucking head_!

Mr. White seemed to come to the same conclusion: "Shit!"

"You okay, man?" Freddy asked, leaning forward, then felt sick for caring so much.

"He fuckin' shot me!" Brown screamed. It was a fucking miracle that he was still talking.

White wasn't going to waste time wondering why Brown was still alive. "Get us the fuck outta here!" he bellowed. Mr. Brown floored it, and they took off down the road. Leaving cop cars behind them to surround the store, one peeling off in pursuit. Brown weaving in and out of traffic, half-blinded by the blood flowing down his face. A wild drive, outstripping the pursuing cops, Freddy and White hanging on for dear fucking life, barrelling into an alley, turning to avoid a dumpster, and smashing into the back of another car –

"Freddy?"

Back at Karina's. No blood, no broken glass. Freddy gasped, realizing just where he was. Jeff was looking concerned, and the manager – Mr. Goins – was staring at him like he was a fucking lunatic. Freddy realized he must have been staring off into space for some time now. His hands were shaking, and his heart was bashing against his ribs.

He could've sworn that ten minutes ago he'd been in that very store, caught in the middle of a robbery gone wrong. He'd been _there_, he'd actually been _living_ it. Jesus Christ, it was just like it had been with that fucking song. Flashbacks, re-living past events. This time it hadn't been triggered by a song, but by the fucking store. PTSD as Dr. Moss would say. Shit.

"Excuse me," said Freddy, managing to sound almost normal. "I gotta go out – get some air –"

Outside, gulping, gasping, cold sweat, heart pounding, he sat down on the sidewalk and rubbed his hands over his face. "Fuuuuuck..."

This was getting serious. This flashback PTSD shit was really fucking with him. But he couldn't go to Dr. Moss or a fucking confession right now. And he sure as hell couldn't avoid the store, because it was Vega's last target and their only chance of catching the motherfucker. All he could do was hope that when the shit came down, he wouldn't fucking lose it.

_A/N: I've been looking forward to this chapter, because I enjoyed working out what exactly happened during the robbery. Goins is the surname of Ordell's lawyer in _Jackie Brown_. I haven't planned a connection; I just like recycling Tarantino character names! I'm having a bit of trouble with the next chapter - the "showdown", so to speak - so it may be a little longer of a wait than usual. Reviews are welcome!_


	11. Showdown

**Chapter 11: Showdown**

It was a sunny Thursday morning at Karina's Fine Diamonds. Freddy shrugged into a bullet-proof vest while Jeff leaned against the front of the brick building in what was supposed to be a nonchalant manner. Freddy could tell that the kid was fucking nervous, and so was he. Checking to see that nobody was watching, he looked at his reflection in a car window. "Don't pussy out on me now," he whispered. "If you do, I'll fuckin' kill you." He glared so that his reflection got the point, checked that his hands weren't shaking, and strolled over to Jeff. "Everything set?"

"I think so," the younger man answered, handing Freddy one of his radios. "Cops dressed as employees are inside the store. We got the street covered, and uniformed patrolmen are waiting to move in once we spring the ambush." Freddy nodded and started for the door, but Jeff stopped him. "Look man," the other cop said. "You sure about this? Maybe you shouldn't –" Freddy silenced him with a look, grasped Jeff's shoulder in reassurance, and went inside the store.

Posted around the room were cops dressed as store clerks, each with a firearm under the counter. Freddy quietly took his position behind the display cases lining the back wall, crouching down so that he had a view of the front doors through the glass. Everything was set for the ambush, and now all they could do was wait. Christ, he needed a smoke.

According to witness reports of the arsons, Vega had simply strolled into a place, spilled a can of gasoline all over the floor, set fire to it, and walked out cool as fucking ice. Freddy hoped to god they could apprehend the bastard before had a chance to resist, but telling from his previous experiences with Vega that wasn't going to happen. Also, Freddy felt like shit. Last night he'd had a flashback so vivid he'd been clutching his stomach in pain, the fear of death as chilling and real as it had been the day of the robbery. It had been triggered by an ad for a red car. Driven by a woman. Dr. Moss' advice had been nagging him all morning. _I know you are resistant to the idea, but you must revisit your experiences in order to even hope for a full recovery. In short, you must _confess_ everything to someone._ He couldn't fucking drive to a church and come back in time to nab Vega. Still, the symptoms were getting worse, and he was fucking exhausted. He'd stopped sleeping to avoid intense dreams about the warehouse and the fucking garage. Freddy knew that he was near breaking point, and he had to catch Vega and finish it. Now or never.

As if on cue, the radio in the pocket of Freddy's vest crackled. Jeff's voice came through as a static-laced whisper: "Andrews to Newendyke. Subject is in sight. ETA, two minutes."

"Copy that, Andrews. Signing off." Freddy carefully switched off his radio and drew his Beretta with his right hand, and signalled to the undercover cops with his left. Under the counters fingers were curling around weapons, all of them getting ready to give Vega a warm welcome.

The door squeaked as it opened. The first thing Freddy saw through the display case was a hand carrying a gas can. Instantly he was drenched in sweat. His hands began to shake. His stomach flipped over, his mouth went dry, and he struggled frantically for control. He couldn't lose it, he couldn't have a fucking _flashback_ for fuck's sake, not here, not now –

"Freeze! LAPD!" People were shouting, weapons were raised, and Freddy blinked and jumped to his feet. He levelled his gun at Vega – who was holding an H&K MP5A4, a _sub-machine gun_ for fuck's sake! Bastard could take out the whole room with that fucking thing. The gun hung from a shoulder strap, and Vega's finger rested comfortably on the trigger.

The man looked around in mild surprise at the "clerks," quickly spotted Freddy, and grinned in recognition. As the others screamed at Vega to put down his weapon, Freddy locked eyes with the man. They could've been the only two people in the store. And Vega repeated his words from four months ago, the first time they'd met after the robbery: "Hey Orange. Nice scar."

Freddy barely had time to throw himself to the ground before Vega opened fire.

Bullets smashed into the display case and riddled the wall. The gas can clattered to the ground. Freddy pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking pieces of glass from his hair. The sub-machine gun kept on firing, sweeping around the store. Someone screamed in pain. Heart pounding, adrenaline running high. Freddy pulled himself up to see Vega disappearing into the back room, firing a wild spray of bullets over his shoulder. _Shit_. Some fucking ambush.

Freddy didn't look to see who was injured – that crazy motherfucker had just blasted his way out! He vaulted over the ruined display case and raced for the back door. Two or three cops followed him. Like Vega, Freddy knew this building inside and out; they'd gone over Joe's chalk drawing of the place a million fucking times. He turned right, went through a small office, and emerged cautiously in a hallway. To the left was a door to the alleyway behind the store – open.

"Freddy?" He glanced over his shoulder. Tony, Ruthie, and Stevo were all staring at him. He would've liked some more experienced cops backing him up, but he couldn't be choosy.

"He's gone out the back. C'mon!" Stepping out into sunlight, Freddy just registered an open dumpster on one side of the door and a parked truck on the other when another volley of bullets came his way. He ducked and rolled gracelessly into the dumpster, smashing his knee into the metal. Tony and Ruthie sprawled beside him, and Stevo dove back through the door.

The firing stopped. "That was a mean trick you just pulled," called Vega. His wheezy voice carried over a muffled whimpering sound. Freddy's stomach froze – had that fucking psycho taken a hostage? Oh, shit... "It's my turn now, Orange. C'mon, take a look."

"Don't do it!" Tony hissed, his eyes wide with terror. Freddy shushed him with an impatient gesture and crawled to the edge of the dumpster. Cautiously, he poked his head around the side. Vega stood in the middle of the alley, the sub-machine gun hanging from his shoulder. He had his arm around the neck of a young woman and was holding a pistol to her head. As she struggled, Freddy spotted a tattoo on her arm. A snake. His breath caught in his throat: it was his little Asian waitress. The world was really fucking with him now.

Freddy ducked back behind the dumpster. "He's got a hostage," he said in an undertone.

Stevo withdrew further into the building looking scared out of his mind. So much for him, the gutless little bitch. Tony was cursing nonstop under his breath. Ruthie set her jaw. "I'll call for backup," she said, taking Freddy's radio with shaking hands.

"Fine. But nobody's gonna fuckin' try to attack Vega," Freddy ordered. Tony and Ruthie stared at him like he was out of his fucking mind. "Listen, this guy's nuts. He wants _me_. That's the only thing keeping him from killing the hostage." The two rookie cops nodded reluctantly, and Freddy crawled back to the edge of the dumpster. "What now, Blonde?" he called, peering around the corner. Ruthie was fumbling with the radio.

"What now?" Vega shoved the gun against the side of the girl's head, and Freddy winced. "Well, I guess I'd like you to throw your gun away and come on outta there."

Freddy ignored the panicked whispers of the other cops and tossed his Beretta across the alley. Though he didn't show it, he was scared shitless. But if he did nothing, that girl would die. He emerged from his cover, holding up his hands to show that he was unarmed. Out in the open he finally got a clear look at the girl. Vega's arm was tight around her neck. Her purse lay where she had dropped it, contents spilt over the asphalt. She looked about as scared as he felt, and Freddy glared at Vega – that bastard had no right to involve her in this. "You gonna let her go?"

"Not just yet." Vega flashed him a friendly smile, which pissed Freddy off even more. "Come a little closer... a couple more steps... _that's_ it. Now get down on your knees, kid. Hands behind your head." A polite request. "I'm afraid we don't have time to finish this properly, and that's a real shame, Orange. I would've enjoyed slicing you up." He shook his head sadly.

Freddy stared at Vega. "Yeah, that's a real fucking shame." _Asshole_.

"Why'd you fucking shoot me, Orange?" Vega rasped. He was looking at him like this was all some sort of misunderstanding. Freddy couldn't fucking believe him.

"What, you really wanna know?" He gave a small disbelieving laugh. "I shot you because I didn't like your hairstyle, man. Not just your hairstyle, I didn't like your shoes either. What the fuck d'you _think_?" He burst out. "I fuckin' shot you because you were gonna burn Marvin!"

"Marvin... huh." Vega thoughtfully tapped the Desert Eagle against the girl's head. He shrugged and smiled. "I was done with him anyway. For you, it's too bad I gotta do it quick like this. But I'm still gonna enjoy it. Regardless." The corners of his eyes crinkled.

The gun left the girl's temple to point directly at Freddy's head. The young cop licked his suddenly-dry lips. It was uncomfortably hot in his bullet-proof vest; a lot of fucking good it would do him at point-blank range. Vega was going to execute him, like the people in the store. It was fucking ridiculous. He'd been shot in the head, woke from a fucking coma, and worked his ass off to track down this crazy motherfucker, only to die now at his hands.

As Freddy knelt in the alleyway, looking down the barrel of Vega's gun, he became hyperaware of his body. His senses raced to record everything they could of this world before he left it. He heard traffic passing on the streets. He tasted bitterness on his tongue. He _felt_... He felt rigid tape on his healing fingers. He felt his heart pounding in his throat. Sweat forming on his back under the heavy vest. Asphalt digging into his knees. Tightness around his right ankle... wait a minute...

The sound of quickly-approaching footsteps shattered the air like firecrackers. A frantic babble of raised voices. Vega turned, distracted, to look over his shoulder.

_This was his chance!_ Freddy rolled onto his side and reached for his right ankle in one swift motion – the girl watched in alarm. He pulled a gun from the holster – Vega was turning back. Raised the gun – the girl shut her eyes. Aimed – Vega glanced at him, his expression turning to one of surprise.

Squeezed the trigger.

Sound. Recoil. Vega toppled to the ground. Right between the eyes.

Freddy remained propped up on his side, gun still extended. Silently he mimed the action of shooting Vega one more time, and felt a strange sense of déjà vu – _emptying his clip into Vega in the warehouse, raising the gun, pointing – gotcha_. A feeling of closure washed over him, and he quietly returned the gun to its holster. Only then did he look to see what had distracted Vega: Jeff and the other cops had run around to the back of the building upon receiving Ruthie's call.

The girl scrambled away from Vega's unmoving body and stared at it in shock. A dark pool of blood was slowly spreading from under Vega's head. Freddy crawled over to her on bruised knees, reached out, and shook her arm gently. "You all right? Hey are you all right, yes or no?"

The girl blinked and finally looked at him. There was blood on her shoulder. Vega's. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right." Her voice was strained. They stood up and he led her a little ways away from the chaos. Cops swarmed around Vega. Ruthie and Tony were gaping at the body. Stevo crawled timidly out from behind the dumpster. And Jeff, good old Jeff, was talking on his radio and barking out instructions at the same time. Jesus Christ, it was fucking over, Vega was –

"Nice shot," the girl said, laughing shakily, still looking at Vega's body and trying not to look at it. She gave a wry grin. "I think I'll have to give you my number now."

Freddy glanced quickly at her. "I've seen you around town," he hazarded. _Don't push it, stay casual, don't let her know what a fucking nutcase you are._ "But I could never talk to you."

A pause. "You can now."

Freddy hesitated. Dozens of police were crowding around Vega, and he could hear more sirens approaching. Not exactly a fitting place to ask a girl out. But then, his life been pretty fucked up recently. _Fuck it._ "Will you have dinner with me?"

She looked up at him. Smiled. "Yes."

They turned to look at Vega's body, both still rather stunned by what had just happened. Eight months after the robbery, eight months after talking with Marvin, eight months after the worst fucking day of Freddy's life, it was finally over. He didn't know what he wanted to do first, fall into bed or get fucking plastered. And he had a date. Life was already getting better. Suddenly, Freddy realized that he was missing one important detail: "What's your name?"

The girl self-consciously rubbed her elbow. "Toby."

Freddy stared at her, a fragment of a conversation that seemed so long ago tickling his memory. The chink of cutlery on plates, and Joe Cabot's trademark growl. _Oh Toby's that little Chinese girl. What was her last name? _It just couldn't be… "Toby Chu?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Wong."

_A/N: My birthday was yesterday; I brought my coworkers brownies, and you guys get this chapter which I know you've been waiting for. And so dies Mr. Blonde, one messed-up son of a bitch. I couldn't wait to have Freddy use the gun in his ankle holster. I was kind of disappointed when he didn't get to use it in the movie. And yes, Joe eventually got the name right: it's Toby Wong. Only one more chapter to go._


	12. Anniversary

**Chapter 12: Anniversary**

Freddy finally stopped walking and looked around – he had no idea where the fuck he was. The streets looked unfamiliar and it was late at night, so he ducked into a bar before someone tried to fucking mug him. He could use a drink anyway.

The place was dimly-lit and almost empty, a shitty little hole-in-the-wall where people minded their own business. Perfect. He sat at the bar on a rickety stool and waited for the red-faced bartender to notice him. But the bartender wasn't paying him any attention, because he was busy shouting at another customer: "If you're not gonna fuckin' buy anythin', ya penniless cocksucker, then get the hell out!"

The "penniless cocksucker" was a black man reading a soiled newspaper. On the ground beside his stool was a plastic bag that Freddy assumed contained all of his worldly possessions. His expression was strangely serene, but still Freddy felt rather sorry for him. He budged over one stool to sit beside the guy. "I'll get it, buddy."

The bartender stopped in mid-shout and squinted at him. "It's your money," he grunted.

Freddy turned to the black man. "What'll you have?"

"Whatever is good for my brother is also good for me."

Freddy blinked – this guy was a fucking weirdo. "Two beers," he said to the bartender, beginning to regret his charitable impulse. Hopefully this homeless guy would leave him the fuck alone. They drank a while in silence, and the bartender left the counter to play checkers with some old fogey sitting in the corner. It was strangely peaceful, and Freddy was free to brood. He hadn't felt so depressed in ages. There were the fucking memories, plus the problem with Toby... He sighed and drummed his fingers on the dusty counter.

The black man looked at him, eyes darting over the scar on his cheek. "I'm Jules."

"Freddy," said the young cop, coming out of his misery to shake the older man's hand.

"You see this?" Jules held up his newspaper. Front page headline: "Alleged gangster Wallace faces charge of racketeering conspiracy", and below that was a mug shot of the guy – Detective Jiang had scored one for the LAPD. "You know," said Jules thoughtfully, looking at the picture, "a guy like this is gonna have some major fuckin' infrastructure, man. Even if he does time, nigger's still gonna keep his power on the inside. And when he gets out, his empire will be fuckin' _waiting_ for him."

"I know," said Freddy heavily, "but at least they're doing something." Despite his words, optimism was the furthest feeling from his current state of mind.

The black man's eyes seemed to sharpen. "You a cop, Freddy?"

"I was."

"Was?"

Freddy raised his bottle to his lips. For once he was glad alcohol affected him so badly. "I couldn't do field work, so I quit." He took a long, _long_ gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "A couple months ago I was on patrol with my partner Jeff, when I had a motherfuckin' seizure. Turns out I've got post-traumatic epilepsy. Exactly a year ago I was shot in the head. That's kinda why I'm here today. Some fucked-up anniversary."

Jules was looking at him steadily. "Something happened to me a year ago, too. I witnessed a miracle." Freddy was about to laugh, but stopped when he saw how serious the other guy was. "I decided to give up a life of crime," Jules explained, "and a couple days later my partner was killed with a fuckin' shotgun. Ever since then I've been walkin' the earth, tryin' to find God's purpose. But in honour of the anniversary of that miracle, I returned to LA."

Freddy whistled. "Jesus Chri–"

"Don't blaspheme, Freddy."

The young cop blinked. Was this motherfucker serious? If he was telling the truth, then he'd once been a fucking dangerous law-breaker. Freddy could very well believe it.

They continued to drink their beers, and it was Jules who broke the silence: "Why were you shot in the head?"

Freddy opened his mouth to tell the other guy to fuck off, but thought better of it. Something about the mild expression on Jules' face made Freddy feel that he could trust the guy. That was complete bullshit of course – this guy was fucking homeless and trying to con a few bucks out of him. But there was no harm in being honest, was there? _Fuck it._

"I was shot because... because I deserved it. I was in a fucking coma, by all rights I should've died – but I was given a second chance." Freddy snorted. "I can't believe I'm telling you this. My psychiatrist wants me to confess to a priest, but what does a fucking priest know about crime? Or about being a fuckin' undercover cop?" He realized that his fists were clenched, and he took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.

Jules cocked his head to the side. "You still wanna confess?"

"I – what?" Freddy was caught off-guard.

"You were told to confess, Freddy, but you couldn't find the right person to hear your sins. Now, this is the way I see it." Jules leaned forward, placing an elbow on the bar. He had piercing eyes that reminded Freddy of his old high school principal. "Your life was spared, and so was mine by the touch of God. You went undercover among criminals, and _I_ used to be a criminal. You're afraid of opening up to someone, but this time tomorrow I'll be gone from LA, never to return. Now, Freddy, what's it gonna be?"

Freddy was staring at the other man with his mouth hanging open. This guy couldn't be serious. But Jules was still looking at him expectantly, and this was his chance, he could finally do what Dr. Moss had fucking told him and get it off his back. "Shit." He drained the bottle and slammed it down on the counter. "Let's get this fuckin' over with."

Jules turned on his stool to face the bar, and Freddy did the same. He felt like an idiot, the two of them staring at the row of bottles, Jules with his hands clasped on the counter in front of him. Freddy looked around the bar, but nobody was paying any attention. He cleared his throat, and spoke in a low whisper: "Bless me fa– um, I mean Jules. I have sinned. Uh... it's been over four months – wait." He turned to the other man. "Does a confession count if I didn't really mean it?" Motherfucker didn't move his head, just _looked_ at him out of the corner of his eye. Freddy got the message. "Then it's been... five years since my last confession." He took a deep breath – he was finally going to tell it all. Here goes. "A year ago, I got an inside job on a robbery as an undercover cop..."

Sitting in that filthy little bar, Freddy Newendyke poured out his story to a homeless man he'd met only minutes ago. At first he felt pretty fucking stupid, but after a while it got easier. Apprehension turned to sweet welcome relief, and he found himself describing everything: going undercover, his guilt about lying to Larry, the day of the robbery...

"So I'm standin' outside when the fuckin' alarm goes off. I go into the store, and shootin' all the customers and employees is that psycho motherfucker Vic Vega –"

"Vic Vega?" Jules interrupted him for the first time.

"Yeah. What, you heard of him?"

The black man had a small smile on his face. "Not exactly. Continue."

Freddy looked at him curiously, but carried on: "Well, Vega went insane and it turned into a fucking bloodbath..."

The innocent victims, the woman in the car, the agonizing pain, Marvin being tortured, and Larry believing him, Larry standing up for him, Larry taking a bullet for him...

"Then I told him I was a cop. I'd betrayed him. He put a gun to my head, but I couldn't fuckin' blame him. In a way, I wanted him to. D'you understand that, man?"

Jules nodded. "I think I do."

"The cops burst in, and that's when he did it. Right here." His hand brushed the scar on his cheek. "Two months later I woke up from a coma, and I couldn't remember shit..."

The suicide attempt, his testimony, finding out about Vega, tracking him down once – twice – and now three times. Jeff. Irene. The arsons. The showdown at Karina's...

"And then I pulled out the gun and shot him – bam! – right between the eyes! It was eight fuckin' months since the robbery. But I finally killed the bastard."

Jules was silent a moment. "What are you doin' now?" he asked.

"I left the force. Fuckin' epilepsy. Holdaway told me about a detective agency run by his friend Dargus, a retired cop."

The black man looked at him warily. "Man, you ain't gonna have a fuckin' seizure right here in the middle of the fuckin' bar, are you? Start shaking and vomiting and shit?"

"No," said Freddy tiredly. "I'm taking meds for it. And if something happens, just leave me alone and it'll pass. Still scares the shit outta Toby, though."

Jules laughed and shook his head. "I gotta ask you – what kinda chick's name is Toby?"

"Her Chinese name is Tao Bit or Toh Bik or some fuckin' thing like that." He twiddled his thumbs. "So, what, is that it? Was that my fuckin' confession?"

"Just wait one fuckin' minute, Freddy. After confession comes absolution. I need to absolve your ass." Jules looked at him shrewdly. "You read the Bible, Freddy?"

"As a kid. Catholic upbringing. In fact," Freddy sighed, "that's part of my problem."

"Explain."

"Well..." Freddy hesitated. "I didn't just come here because of what happened to me a year ago. Well yeah, that was some of it, but my girlfriend just gave me some news. We've been together a few months." He paused. "She... fuck, she just found out she's pregnant. We're both Catholic, so for her it's a pretty bad situation." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "I've been carrying this around for weeks."

Jules opened the box and expertly eyed the diamond ring. "It's nice."

Freddy grinned. "Karina's gave me a good deal on it. They kinda owe me." He returned it to his pocket. "My life as a kid was pretty fucked up, and as you can probably tell from my confession, that hasn't changed. I mean – what kind of a father would I be? My mom abandoned me and I lived in foster homes. And during that job I witnessed two people die who were parents of young kids – one who _I_ killed. Shit, I dunno what to do."

Jules was silent for a moment. "When I told my girlfriend I was gonna walk the earth, she walked out the fuckin' door, man." Jules looked him in the eye. "You're asking me if Toby's the one. So imagine. If Toby told you she was gonna leave everything, give up her money, her home, her job, and walk the earth, what would you do?" Jules paused, and his voice lowered to a whisper. "Would you let her go? Or, would you walk with her?"

Freddy pondered this. "Nobody knows what they'll do in a situation until it actually happens," he said wryly. "But... I think that I'd walk with her." Slapping some money on the counter, he called to the bartender, "Give this guy a couple drinks on me." Freddy hopped off the stool and shook the other man's hand. "Thanks, Jules."

The black man winked. "Good luck, Freddy."

He had a mission now. It took a while to find his way home, but Freddy was too excited to care. He took the stairs two at a time, and was slightly breathless when he unlocked the door.

They'd just moved into a bigger apartment and most things were still in boxes. His Sandy Rogers CD was playing "Train Fare to Memphis". And Toby had stayed up late, painting. She was wearing his old button-up shirt for a smock – and nothing else. Freddy watched her rub the back of her leg with her bare foot as she worked. Then he walked towards her. Hearing his step, she turned around.

Freddy reached into his pocket, and got down on one knee.

_A/N: And so ends the trilogy. It's been quite a ride, and I've had a lot of fun! I couldn't resist having Jules Winnfield from _Pulp Fiction_ as our guest star of this chapter. If you've taken the time to read this I'd love to hear your opinion! Cheers._


End file.
